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NOT THE KING’S WILL 

AND OTHER LITERARY EFFORTS IN 
PROSE AND IN VERSE 


BY 

WILLIAM W. PENNELL, M.D. 




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CONTENTS 


Actor, The . 53 

After . 93 

Album, Written in an. 113 

Alchemists, The. 28 

All Hail, Old World!. 23 

American Liberty . 165 

Armistice, The Greater . 105 

Aristocracy, Dumpville . 55 

Athletics. 198 

Baby. 108 

Baby, The— His Rights and Expectations. 128 

Baby’s Train . 92 

Bird, Little. 99 

Captain’s Story, The. 117 

Change . 100 

Christmas . 122 

Christmas, The First. 103 

Compensation . 149 

’Coon Hunter’s Song. 95 

Carroll Celsus Pennell . 89 

Dead, The . 44 

Death . 92 

Deliverance . 119 

Depravity. 125 

Dewey and Sampson. 47 

Discussion. 133 

Doctors at Home, The. 71 

Down the Ohio. 137 

Dream, The Kaiser’s. 49 

Dream, The Sentinel’s. 96 

Editor and the Poet, The. 98 

Elegy in a Dissecting Room. 162 

Faith . Ill 

Faith, Hope and Charity. 29 

Fifty, At . 21 

Flag, His Mother’s. 120 






































6 


Contents 


Flag, Let Them Not Pollute The. 45 

Flag Overhead, The. 147 

Flag of Strong America, The. 106 

Flag, A Tribute to the. 74 

Friends, Two. 93 

Frog, Honorable Speckled. 78 

Fruition . 126 

Future of Pediatric Science, The. 167 

Garfield. 91 

Girls, Our . 102 

Girl, Our Little. 110 

Give Me Your Hand. 140 

Grief, A Nation’s. 65 

Hans Stein to His Grandson. 104 

Heart Deserted, The. 73 

LIome. 124 

Harding, President. 30 

If . 149 

If You Were Me. 126 

Infection, Cervical Glandular. 173 

Inscription, An. 125 

Jim Thought, What. 48 

Kitties, The Two. 196 

Knox Memorial, The. 127 

Life . 40 

Life, The Path of. 28 

Lincoln . 144 

Love’s Belief. 26 

Lullaby. 97 

McKinley, President. 65 

Memoriam, In. 199 

Memories . 76 

Mixing Medicine and Law. 31 

Mount Zion Lodge, F. & A. M. 101 

My Bonnie Lass and 1. 146 

Not the King’s Will. 11 

One of the Guards. 161 

Over the Mason’s Wall. 51 

Over the Way. 124 

Pat Hogan’s ’Pendisatis. 179 










































Contents 7 

Peace, The Greater. 70 

Peaches . 123 

Picknicking. 166 

Potter, The. 75 

Prayer, A. 156 

Prologue . 9 

Queen of the Race Track. 148 

Quite Natural . 64 

Rain, The . Ill 

Rattlesnake’s Skin, To a. 22 

Red Cross, The. 25 

Rose, My. 54 

Rose, The. 166 

Sammie’s Substitute. 183 

Sea Sickness . 150 

Serenity. 109 

Sing! Sing!. 110 

Snyder, Dr. Darlington J . 133 

Song of the Spirit of Dust. 141 

Song of Winter. 160 

Spectacle Man, The. 114 

Thanksgiving... 43 

Things, These Beautiful. 62 

Tramp, A Literary. 67 

Unknown Soldier, At the Grave of an. 138 

Visitor, Tpie Small City. 151 

Voyagers, The . 61 

Watch Your Step.. 165 

War, Holiness of.- 94 

War of the Hun Isn’t Hell, The. 139 

Warrior, Statesman and Christian, The. 77 

Weaving the Web. 112 

Woodchopper, The. 157 

Xylol . 63 

Year, The Changing. 46 

Yesterday, To-Day and Tomorrow. 27 

ZlLLAH. 153 







































ILLUSTRATIONS 


Frontispiece 

Facing Page 

The Dead. 44 

Quite Natural. 64 

Cranberry Marsh. 78 

Our Girls. 102 

Babt . 108 

His Mother’s Flag . 120 

If You Were Me . 126 

An Unknown Soldier’s Grave in France. 138 

Lincoln . 144 

Song of Winter. 160 


Picknicking 


166 













PROLOGUE 


With exceptions, the contents of this volume have 
been culled from a mass of material that grew in moments 
stolen from a busy professional life. They detached the 
clutch that hitched their author to vocation’s wheel and 
gave fancy a season of racing. 

Then, too, from a desire to contribute a mite to the 
sum of medical knowledge, opportunities were accepted to 
prepare thirty-odd papers on medical subjects. These 
embraced many points collected in the school of experi¬ 
ence and observation and were read to such medical asso¬ 
ciations as that of: Knox County, Ohio, Fourth Ohio 
District, Ohio State, Ohio State Pediatric, American As¬ 
sociation Insurance Examining Surgeons, Mississippi 
Valley, American Medical, and the Fifth Pan-American 
Medical Congress which met at Guatemala City, C. A. 
These papers appeared in such medical publications as: 
Ohio State Medical Journal , American Medical Com¬ 
pand, Virginia Medical Monthly , Medical News , Annals 
of Gynecology and Pediatry , Medical and Surgical Re¬ 
porter , Journal American Medical Association , Journal 
Association American Insurance Examining Surgeons , 
Lancet-Clinic and Clinical Medicine , and in the proceed¬ 
ings of The Fifth Pan-American Congress. Three of 
these papers constitute the exceptions, and, because of a 
particular personal interest they contain, are included 
in this compilation. 

Many of the other productions have appeared in print, 
the particular publication being given with each; but the 
others have never been under the critical eye of editor. 

The merit of this volume is chiefly personal. If the 
desire to have its contents in convenient and permanent 
shape for preservation and reference has a tinge of 
egotism, let the reader smile. Vanitas vanitatum; omnium 


vanitas! Perhaps somewhere in the garret of his recol¬ 
lection could be found—not a volume, possibly—but an 
accumulation of little worth to any one except himself. 
If he should examine it from time to time, or if he should 
invite other eyes to look on it as I do these, the privilege 
is his as well as mine. The sin is not mortal. 

William W. Pennell 

205 North Main Street, 

Mount Vernon, Ohio. 



NOT THE KING S WILL 


A STORY OF THE 
BABYLONIAN CAPTIVITY 

Masonic Voice - Review , September and October , 1908 

W HAT wouldst thou?” demanded a silver-haired 
Hebrew of a huge warrior who had jostled him 
on his way to the University of Erech. The 
old man’s anger and his imperious inquiry arrested the 
steps of many who were pursuing their course in the 
shadows of the hanging gardens. 

Unconscious of the curiosity he had aroused, the He¬ 
brew stood with an indignant gaze riveted on his tor¬ 
mentor. “What wouldst thou?” 

The warrior turned to his fellows and laughed, while 
another warrior tripped a potter hurrying to his wheel 
to shape a new-conceived idea into visible existence. The 
tumble of the artisan drew the interest of the offensive 
soldiers from the Hebrew. Their boisterous laughter rang 
out on the balmy air, adding to his indignation. 

Boldly striding into the midst of the ill-mannered fel¬ 
lows, he cried, “Small wonder is it that your master, 
Nebuchadnezzar, can stand with his feet on the whole 
world, when his soldiers are such ribald henchmen!” 

The intrepidity of the Jew silenced the mocking jeers. 
The huge warrior turned and faced the old man angrily. 
“What! Henchmen, indeed! Know you not, Israelite, that 
you have uttered words of treason against the king?” 

The Hebrew’s face showed no fear as he unflinchingly 
gazed on the king’s guard. “ ’Tis false; I spoke not 
against Nebuchadnezzar. He knows not the indignities 
that are daily heaped on the captives of Jerusalem.” 

The trooper frowned at the fearless man, hesitating in 


12 


Not the King’s Will 


his reply. “Realize you not, Hebrew, that you have im¬ 
pugned the army of our mighty and ever glorious king?” 

“No,” answered the Jew, stoutly. “The king himself 
would absolve me of disloyalty if he but knew half the 
contumely that my people suffer at the hands of the 
Babylonians.” 

The soldier shifted his position, disclosing to the He¬ 
brew the officer’s badge on his breast. Satisfied that the 
old man had recognized the emblem, the officer signalled 
the others to surround the Israelite, and said, “You are 
Bamishiel, are you not?” 

The Jew raised his head proudly. “Yea; I am Bami¬ 
shiel.” 

The officer drew nearer the Jew. “And Master of the 
Order of Solomon at Jerusalem?” 

Bamishiel remained firmly at his place, though the 
soldiers pressed him sorely. “True; I was Master of the 
Order of Solomon.” 

Groans and cries greeted the admission, but the officer 
held up a hand for silence. “Your Order, under Solomon 
of Israel, and Hiram of Tyre, builded the Temple of 
Jehovah?” 

The gray-whiskered face of Bamishiel shone with pleas¬ 
ure. “Thou hast well said,” he replied. “The Craftmen, 
under the direction of Solomon, king of Israel, and Hiram, 
king of Tyre, builded the Temple of The Most High God 
at Jerusalem.” 

“It is enough,” declared the officer. “Let the fellow 
go.” 

The throng fell apart, allowing Bamishiel to continue 
his way toward the university and the Euphrates. Scarcely 
had he gone a cubit’s length when a hand was laid on his 
shoulder. Turning half-resentfully, he beheld the smiling 
face of a young man beaming on him. 

“0 Uncle, what gladness it gave the heart of Belteshaz- 
zar to hear you tell of the wise Solomon, and the building 
of the Temple.” 

Bamishiel checked his steps on beholding Belteshazzar. 
“Daniel,” said he, softly, his manner becoming as tender 


Not the King’s Will 


13 


as a woman’s, “Daniel, it is hard for one so old and 
indoctrinated as Bamishiel to remember the Chaldean 
names which Babylon has bestowed on the children of 
Israel. It is my pleasure to call thee Daniel.” 

The face of the young man glowed with renewed en¬ 
thusiasm. “Be it so, Uncle. Israel’s God shall overcome 
Bel-Merodach; Babylon’s seven magnificent deities shall 
praise the name of Jehovah. I have read it in the stars, 
it has come to me like whispers in my dreams.” 

Proceeding onward, every line of resentment vanished 
from the brow of Bamishiel as he listened to the animated 
Belteshazzar. Very soon the waters of the Euphrates 
glistened on their eyes, attracting their attention. 

The young man would have continued his theme had 
not a girlish voice interrupted. 

“Father, Father!” it called. 

Both turned and discovered a young woman approach¬ 
ing. Her dark hair and eyes contrasted strongly with 
her creamy complexion, and her bright colored robes dis¬ 
closed the outlines of a beautiful form. 

The men halted to await her coming, and Bamishiel 
smiled. “It is Laseal,” he said. Then, as she joined 
them, he took her hand and gave the maid a look of in¬ 
quiry. “What is it, daughter?” 

Laseal bowed, giving Belteshazzar a laughing glance. 
The young man could not conceal the flash of admiration 
that leaped into his eyes. 

“ ’Tis nothing, Father,” returned Laseal, blushing. “I 
did but see you from the library and hastened to join you 
in looking once more on the Euphrates.” 

“How you gladden my heart, daughter!” Then, in a 
chiding tone, Bamishiel asked, “Have you no word for 
Daniel ?” 

“Yes, Father. I bowed to him as gracefully as power 
within me lay, and now bespeak him the continued success 
in school as his standing foreshadows.” Giving Daniel 
an arch look, she asked, “Could one do more?” 

Belteshazzar bowed, blushing violently. “If I may speak 
to Laseal, Uncle,” he said, “I would tell her that though 


14 


Not the King’s Will 


my labors be like those who built the great reservoir to 
receive the waters of the Euphrates while its bed was being 
laid with bricks; yet, it is my hope to succeed withal, even 
as Nebuchadnezzar triumphed over the River of Babylon.” 

Bamishiel smiled, saying, “The River of Babylon may 
become the undoing of the Babylonian king.” 

The suggestion of prophecy brought a cloud of trouble 
to Belteshazzar’s face. His anxiety obliterated Laseal and 
the Euphrates as he inquired, “Knew you, Uncle, who the 
soldier was who asked you concerning the Order of 
Solomon?” 

“Nay, Daniel,” was Bamishiel’s apathetic reply. “The 
difference in men to me is but little; still, since you ask, 
who was he?” 

“Evil-Morodach.” 

“The son of Nebuchadnezzar?” 

“Yea, Uncle.” 

Bamishiel’s countenance changed. Lines of love, ad¬ 
miration, and concurrence, gave way to frowns of protest 
and suspicion. “If it be the will of Jehovah, let Evil- 
Morodach reign over Israel,” he said dubiously; then 
added, reverently, “but if the fatherhood of God prevails, 
then the grievous days of Evil-Morodach will never be 
laid on Israel.” 

The approach of two of the king’s guard had not been 
seen. Almost silently they drew near until they stood in 
Bamishiel’s way. Laying a hand on the old man’s 
shoulder, one of them announced, “His Majesty, Nebu¬ 
chadnezzar of Babylon, commands you to appear in his 
august presence.” 

Bamishiel whirled on his heel. “It is well,” he said, 
clearly, his voice betraying no sign of emotion as he gave 
a parting word to Laseal and Belteshazzar. “Go with 
her to her home, dear Daniel; say unto the good people 
there that, God willing, I will return when Israel’s master 
hath done with me. I am ready, guard, to be conducted 
into the king’s presence.” 

Laseal, fearful for his safety, would have clung to her 
father, but one of the guards broke her grasp. The old 


Not the King’s Will 


15 


man’s eye flashed with sudden anger, yet contented him¬ 
self with giving the soldier a look of indignation. 

“Fear nothing for thy father’s life, Laseal,” he said; 
“for, by the grace of God, I have uttered no treason 
against the king.” 

Pedestrians stopped to gaze on the spectacle of the 
king’s guards conducting the old man toward the palace, 
and wondered at the imperious mien of Bamishiel. Youths 
followed at respectful distances and jeered at the Israel¬ 
ite’s helplessness in his free demeanor. 

Out of the sunshine into the opalescent audience cham¬ 
ber, the splendor of Nebuchadnezzar’s court confused the 
eyes of Bamishiel. But shading his face until his confusion 
had passed, he gazed about steadily. At the further end, 
seated on a magnificent throne and clothed in his royal 
robes, was the King of Babylon surrounded by his court 
officers. Nebuchadnezzar’s body was bent forward, his 
brows knit with abstraction as if a stern decision pos¬ 
sessed his soul. 

The entrance of the guards with Bamishiel did not 
rouse the king for the moment, and they stood waiting 
permission to advance. Soon the monarch’s face indicated 
that he had reached a conclusion in the matters that had 
possessed his thoughts, and his first words to the chief of 
the guard indicated the subject of the conference to be 
held. 

“I would question the Jew alone,” he said, settling the 
folds of his robe. 

The chief bowed, and a look of surprise passed from 
one to another of the officers. A secret audience of Nebu¬ 
chadnezzar with the Israelite had not been expected; but, 
making a low obeisance to their sovereign, the officers and 
guards withdrew, wondering at his vagary. 

Nebuchadnezzar signalled Bamishiel to approach the 
throne—conqueror and conquered stood face to face. 

It was a respectful gaze that the Israelite returned for 
the king’s threatening glare. Soon, however, the counte¬ 
nance of the monarch softened, and a smile, as of recogni¬ 
tion, dispelled the harsh scrutiny. 


16 


Not the King’s Will 


“Art thou Bamishiel, Master of the Order of Solomon, 
of Jerusalem?” asked the king, kindly. 

The Israelite bowed. “I am,” he replied, simply. 

“Is it thy desire to return to Jerusalem?” 

“The wife of my bosom and the sons and daughters of 
my household are at Jerusalem, O King.” The voice of 
Bamishiel was almost pleading in its tone. “None of my 
family shares my captivity save Lasael, upon whom is 
being forced the Chaldean tongue.” 

“Wouldst thou have the altar, the pillars of brass, the 
golden candlestick, the tables and the sacred vessels which 
my vassals sacked from the Temple of the Hebrew God at 
Jerusalem, but now in the Temple of Babylon—wouldst 
thou have these returned to Jerusalem?” 

Bamishiel’s eyes sparkled and his breast heaved with 
emotion. 

“Length of days and prosperity be thine, O King, and 
may thy kingdom endure. Surely, the. God of Israel 
hath placed this thought in thy heart!” exclaimed Bami¬ 
shiel, prostrating himself at the feet of Nebuchadnezzar. 
“Thy servant would have these things restored to God’s 
holy temple.” 

“Arise, Israelite,” commanded the king, touching a 
silver bell, sending its mellow peals re-echoing throughout 
the Babylonian court. 

In answer to the summons there appeared the chief 
eunuch of the palace. 

“Baanas, conduct this Hebrew to the Temple of Belus; 
let him enter the chamber wherein are kept Jehoiakim’s 
treasure, and the vessels, altar and the other articles taken 
from the Israelitish temple of Jerusalem at our command. 
Let the Hebrew gaze on all the spoils of war,” and Nebu¬ 
chadnezzar waved them away. 

Gladly, Bamishiel accompanied the eunuch. So eager 
was he to look on the sacred things wrested from Jeho¬ 
vah’s Temple by impious hands that he outran his con¬ 
ductor. 

Entering the dimly-lighted edifice, Bamishiel stayed his 
feverish haste. He recalled that in the shadowy confines 


Not the King’s Will 


17 


where he stood were to be found the vessels of God and His 
altar of incense; and a fear of Jehovah’s displeasure came 
on him. But his heart told him that he was Levite, of a 
tribe set apart by Moses for holy purposes. 

“It is not the king’s will that I do, but God’s,” he said, 
taking a step forward as his eyes became accustomed to 
the twilight of the apartment. 

Suddenly he gave a cry of joy. There, at his side, were 
the pillars of brass with their chapiters and lily-work, un¬ 
harmed. He scrutinized them lovingly and fondled them 
with trembling hands. The sword of the Chaldean had 
done no harm to them, giving rise to a mighty hope in 
Bamishiel’s breast. 

He turned from them reluctantly, because the eunuch 
admonished him to proceed. His fingers encountered some¬ 
thing near-by; he recoiled least he do harm. Stooping, he 
perceived that he had touched the golden table. Placing 
himself in better position, he was gladdened by seeing the 
golden candlestick which Solomon had dedicated to the 
Temple to furnish light by day. 

“Here were set the loaves of God,” he said, smiling in 
deepest reverence, tears of gratification filling his eyes. 
Slowly, yearningly, he felt every portion, whispering his 
delight like a child. Nothing was lacking, save the unhal¬ 
lowed spot it now occupied. He thought a moment and 
added, huskily: “Close by the candlestick stood the ark of 
the Covenant.” 

The eunuch was a silent, but wondering, spectator of 
the varying emotions of the Hebrew. The delicate touches 
and rapturous inspections that Bamishiel bestowed on the 
candlestick seemed to suggest to him that the half-light of 
the room was ill-conditioned for the Israelite’s view, for he 
drew aside a heavy, richly adorned curtain from a large 
window, and allowed a flood of light to enter. 

Bamishiel moaned with mingled happiness and wretch¬ 
edness. The action of Baanas clearly revealed every arti¬ 
cle that had been sacked from the Temple, ravishing the 
eyes of the Israelite with their splendor, even in their 
neglected condition. 


18 


Not the King’s Will 


From one to another he staggered in his blind ecstasy, 
whimpering and lamenting at once, but comforted. Now, 
his heart exulted in the greatness of Israel; then, his soul 
sank into the depth of humility for the sins of his people 
that had caused the fall of Jerusalem. 

“The wrath of Jehovah will be appeased when these are 
returned to His Temple,” he whispered, dragging himself 
onward, fearful lest his eyes should fail to look on a single 
treasure. 

His course took him into a deep alcove, where, breathing 
heavily in anticipation, he pulled his faltering steps. In 
the next instant he uttered a scream and fell prostrate to 
the floor, where he remained a short season, his hoarse 
voice raised in thanksgiving. 

“O, Great Jehovah, now let thy servant die, since he has 
been permitted to look once again on Thy altar of in¬ 
cense !” he moaned. Then, raising himself, he knelt at the 
altar, weeping for joy. Reverently, he laid his hands 
against its sides; its touch thrilled his soul and kindled his 
heart with renewed hope in the re-establishment of the 
kingdom of Israel. He rose and bent over it, holding it 
in his embrace, kissing its inanimate surface, unmindful 
that the eunuch was plucking at his garments and remind¬ 
ing him that he must now return to the palace. 

Finally waking to externals, he was amazed to see Nebu¬ 
chadnezzar standing within the apartment, his gaze intent 
on the scene before him. 

Hurriedly, Bamishiel ran and threw himself before the 
king. 

“Arise!” commanded Nebuchadnezzar, taking the He¬ 
brew by the arm. “You are Bamishiel, Master of the 
Order of Solomon at Jerusalem, and possess all the secrets 
of that illustrious brotherhood. Is it not true?” 

“Yea; it is true.” 

“And these vessels and furniture of Jehovah’s Temple 
are, by thy people, held to be most holy?” 

“Yea; also true.” 

Nebuchadnezzar’s voice became soft and coaxing. “I 
would possess the secrets of the Order of Solomon that I 


Not the King’s Wile 


19 


may add them to my kingly powers. Therefore, it is my 
will to have these returned to Jerusalem for the worship 
of thy people, and thou shalt have freedom, if thou wilt 
but reveal to me the hidden work of your beneficent 
Order.” 

Bamishiel turned and gazed on the holy treasures. 
Again, he slowly walked round the temple and lovingly 
touched every well-known article, grudgingly returning to 
prostrate himself again before Nebuchadnezzar. 

“Arise!” ordered the king. 

Bamishiel rose and stood before the monarch in the at¬ 
titude of stern indignation. 

“Your answer, Jew!” demanded the king, angered at 
not meeting ready compliance. 

Bamishiel’s tall form grew proudly erect. 

“No!” he thundered. “Were the king to offer many 
times over what thou hast, it is not the king’s will, but 
God’s, which must prevail. The secrets which thou wouldst 
obtain are not mine to give, and none receive them save he 
who is actuated by the highest motives, and then only in 
a lawful manner.” 

“Hast thou forgotten, Hebrew, that the king can punish 
as well as reward—that he permits nothing to thwart his 
purposes?” asked Nebuchadnezzar, his frame quivering 
with rage. 

Bamishiel bowed meekly. “Thou art King Nebuchad¬ 
nezzar, Master of Babylon and Monarch of Chaldea, con¬ 
queror of Jerusalem and captor of many of its people. 
Thy will is supreme in all matters pertaining to thy king¬ 
dom.” 

“Then reveal to me the secrets of the Order of Solomon 
under pain of death for thy refusal,” mocked the king, 
drawing near the Hebrew. 

Bamishiel, scorning to pit his great strength against 
that of the king, folded his arms. “Bamishiel cannot, and 
will not, do the will of the king, though he take his life.” 

Nebuchadnezzar gazed at the unmoved Israelite in 
amazement. 

“Greater fealty than this man’s the world has never 


20 


Not the King’s Will 


known!” he declared with a frown, yet admiring the spirit 
that opposed his demands. Moment after moment passed, 
yet the Babylonian king relaxed not his gaze on the man 
before him, his heart filled with thoughts of punishment 
for disobedience of his imperial will. 

Then: “Thou hast a daughter in Babylon, Hebrew. She 
shall be added to the royal harem unless thou dost quickly 
reveal the secrets of the Ordor of Solomon.” 

Bamishiel sank at the feet of the king. 

“The God of Abraham protect Laseal!” he cried aloud. 
“Let the hand that is raised against the daughters of Israel 
become as a broken reed!” 

Instantly the arms of Nebuchadnezzar fell at his sides, 
numb with weakness. His knees smote together with a 
deadly fear, and his tongue grew thick with palsy. 

Bamishiel looked on the king in wonder at the instant 
answer to his prayer, and the eunuch fled from his presence 
as from a pestilence. 

“Jehovah is King of Kings, O king. The sins of my 
people have delivered Jerusalem into thy hands, but the 
protecting shield of His power is over the daughters of 
Israel!” 

“Remove this sorcery!” was the almost inarticulate cry 
of the king, as he struggled with the hidden force that was 
depriving him of his physical powers. “Remove this 
sorcery and the mysteries of the Order of Solomon and 
thy daughters shall remain inviolate forever.” 

“Jehovah be praised!” murmured Bamishiel, support¬ 
ing the reeling monarch to a seat. “May the Lord God of 
Israel heal thee, if thou art true!” 

Suddenly, the king smiled and signified for the Jew to 
call his attendants. The next moment Bamishiel exclaimed: 
“The Lord be praised!” He saw that Nebuchadnezzar 
was strong of limb and fluent of tongue. 




Not the King’s Will 


21 


AT FIFTY 

A Birthday Reverie 

A man should be wise, 

A man should be cool, 

Not quick to advise, 

Lest wits be afool, 

At Fifty. 

His brain should be bright, 

His tongue should be sure, 

His thoughts should be right, 
His soul should be pure, 

At Fifty. 

His will should be strong, 

And speedy his hand 
As he trumpets a song 
In iollity’s band, 

At Fifty. 

His laugh should be brave, 

His smile should be bold, 

As he levels the grave 
Where Folly has rolled, 

At Fifty. 

His love for the gross, 

His taste for the mean, 
Exchanged for the Cross, 

The dead for the green, 

At Fifty. 

The wildness of youth, 

It follies and harms, 

Bear features uncouth 
When stripped of their charms, 

At Fifty. 


February 2, 1903. 


22 


Not the King’s Will 


TO A RATTLESNAKE’S SKIN 

(On receiving the gift of a rattlesnake skin from a friend) 

Within this spangled scabbard breathed 
A coil of flesh that dared to spring 
As lightning swift, with fangs unsheathed, 
Defending home with lethal sting. 

Yet none may say this dappled dress, 

Resplendent with prismatic fret, 

Was worn that it might grace distress, 

Nor hostile acts unbridled whet. 

Sweet kindly love, herein deep-laid, 

And strength for life amid its kin; 

A coward’s back to death forbade 
When foes would slight the warning din. 

Man strikes with no uncertain blow 
When foemen’s arms are raised intent 
To maim or kill, bring fear, bring woe, 

Till all that life could mean is spent. 

Then, who may say within this guise 
That love of home has never dwelt? 

That gleaming orbs were baleful eyes, 

Or heart with grief could never melt? 

So, life is life, and home is home, 

In serpent den or gilded hall— 

Though man aspires to Heaven’s dome 
Rut ’neath his feet these creatures crawl. 

’Tis not to mean that conscious tones 
Win all the joys of earth for theirs, 

When bifid tongues can lap the stones 
And find a heart that ever dares. 


September 3, 1916. 



Not the King’s Will 


23 


ALL HAIL, OLD WORLD! 

All hail, Old World, good-day! 

Seems fine to greet you thus; 

To wander on as partners may, 

And not as strangers, envious. 

Great boy, Old World, great boy! 

I smile at you, you smile at me; 

Responding to your words of joy, 

We fill the air with melody. 

No miser you when Spring’s warm sun 
Shakes off old Winter’s chill and gloom; 

How quick to field and wood you run, 

With garments wove within your loom! 

An artist you, whose magic brush 
Gives rose and lily hues that speak 
Of love and care, and bring a blush 
When we recall our homage weak. 

To wind and storm they stubborn stand, 

And sink on you a fearless hold, 

As clasps a child its mother’s hand 
When tease and frets are overbold. 

And man, who oft in sullen mood, 

His puny slap on you bestows, 

Repents and yields you gratitude, 

Before, in you, he seeks repose. 

Likewise have I, when evils fell, 

And failures came, or frets beset, 

Reproached and damned in anger’s spell, 
Then sank ashamed with deep regret. 


24 


Not the King’s Will 


My youthful zeal, matured by age, 

And calmer toned by larger view, 

Discerned in you sweet hospitage, 

And fearless walks its days with you. 

The lives you serve, quite like your years, 
Swung round their suns till spring uncloaked 
Fair summer’s labor, laughter, tears, 

Till autumn’s fruits their songs provoked. 

Then seems it strange my heart should feel 
The thrill of joy that comes with spring, 
And in life’s winter love its leal, 

And to the songs of old give wing? 


Then, hail, Old World! And by your leave, 

If nears my day with you its verge, 

No nobler host can guest conceive, 

Nor grateful chum can comrade urge. 

’Twas you who gave and I received; 

And yet your giving does not end 
Till, pillowed soft, I am enweaved 
Within your bosom, dear Old Friend! 

—Medical Pickwick, October, 1923. 




Not the King’s Wile 


THE RED CROSS 

In the country and the city, 

On the mountain and the plain, 

It is listing, ever listing, 

Leading thousands, armed with pity, 

Pledged to battle, filth and pain. 

Like a great and valiant yeoman, 

Proud of home-land and its deeds, 

It is marching, bravely marching, 

Strong and trustful as a woman, 

Where the love of service leads. 

To the sick and warring nations, 

’Mid their maladies and strife, 

It is giving, sweetly giving, 

Cheer and comfort, Love’s libations 
Poured upon the trembling life. 

Drink they from war’s dreaded chalice, 
Tossing lie in fever’s grasp, 

It is listing, marching, giving, 

Far removed from hate and malice, 

Off’ring all a helping clasp. 

Aug. 30, 1917. —Holmes County Farmer. 




26 


Not the King’s Will 


LOVE S BELIEF 

When I in sleep shall close my eyes, 

And, crumbling, lie ’neath strangers’ tread, 
As still as dust, in earth’s disguise, 

Let not your tongue say He is dead! 

The dear, dear God, on whom we leant 
When all was wrong, when all was well, 
Placed in our hearts the trust that meant, 
Beyond the grave, to pain farewell. 

While yours it is to live in flesh 
And longer wait the Master’s call, 

Let that great faith be ever fresh 
To keep your soul in Love’s sweet thrall. 

My hungry self with you shall haunt 
Old paths. The scenes that we have known, 
And strolled as lovers stroll, to flaunt 
Our joys, have been and are our own. 

These sun-kissed hills, yon balm-filled plains, 
Each tree and grove a trysting-place, 

Made dear by Cupid’s golden chains, 

Must not forget Love’s sweet embrace. 

Thus, Wife, the sleep that Doubt has feared 
As wrack, to us the triumphing 
Of that strong Faith, within us reared, 

That robs its pain of lethal sting. 




Not the King’s Wile 


27 


YESTERDAY, TO-DAY 
AND TOMORROW 

A week ago we joyous strolled 
At eve, my Mary girl and I, 

As hand in hand with each ahold, 

And all seemed ours, the earth and sky. 

She laughing wore her bridal gown, 

And I so proud my wedding dress; 

I recked she’s won a country clown, 

And I an angel, nothing less. 

To-day, I rode a solemn pace, 

No joyous sweetheart by my side; 

Before me hung my Mary’s face 

For mindless Change had claimed his bride. 

The sun smiles bright where Mary dwells, 

The zephyrs there blow ever free; 

No heart therein with sorrow swells, 

No heart-strings wrung by misery. 

Tomorrow’s path seems dark and drear, 

Its breath is rank with sodden chill; 

The clouds hang low to mock and jeer, 

And bitterness of soul instil. 

O Mary girl, could you return, 

And by my side sit once again, 

My soul’s incense would brightly burn, 

My heart’s dull beat be dead to pain! 




28 


Not the King’s Will 


THE PATH OF LIFE 

The path of life leads from the shadowed wood 
To where our feet first in it tread, 

Then wanders on, half understood, 

And melts into the highway’s spread. 

Its tares, its fruits, spring at our feet 
As sow we seed, on left or right, 

Of noxious weed or flowers sweet, 

To blessings give or lend a blight. 

We run or walk, we smile or frown, 

And give our light or cast our shade; 

This evil-good the stronger grows 
Toward the day when life must fade. 

Our footsteps point the faded way 

Through unknown fields to some sure home, 

Discerned but dim by reason’s day, 

Or flashed from fancy’s fiery dome. 

—Free Press , November 24, 1905. 




THE ALCHEMISTS 

The crucible of Dawn dissolves the ni ght, 

And, from its stores of radiance, 

It pours on man a flood of golden light, 

And yields his rich inheritance. 

So, Love’s dissolving force wears down 

Man’s walls and chains that bind to self alone, 
And clothes him with her joyous crown, 

To lead him captive in a golden zone. 



Not the King’s Will 


29 


FAITH, HOPE AND CHARITY 


! Tis Faith and Hope and Charity 
The Christian Graces are, 

The rarest gems of all the gems 
The human breast can bear, 

By Faith we walk within the path 
That leads us on to God, 

And daily there we purer grow 
Beneath His chast’ning rod. 

Hope looks beyond these transient scenes, 
Beyond this sighing and this pain, 

To endless views and mansioned homes, 

To rest and to eternal gain; 

She mirrors forth the golden streets, 

The pearly gates, the crystal river, 

The happy throngs of the redeemed 
That sing hosannas ever. 

While Charity, that suffers much, 

And, with no evil mind, 

Endures our foibles, frailties, and 
Beholding all, is kind ; 

She contemneth not the mis-set foot, 

The thoughtless word and song, 

But spreads o’er all her mantle white 
To hide the stains of wrong. 

—Masonic Voice-Review , August, 1902. 




30 


Not the King’s Will 


HARDING 

Last night, like one who sinks beneath his load of cares, 
He wandered up Columbia’s steep altar-stairs! 

For him no more the trumpet’s sound 
“Hail to the Chief!” shall cheers compound. 

No more the surging crowd shall see 
His lips shape forth their litany; 

No earthly clasp shall thrill his hand, 

An earnest from his native land; 

No more his smile shall cast its spell, 

And bid good cheer around upswell; 

No more his feet shall tread our halls, 

Nor echo clear his voice their walls; 

But comrade now of mighty shades, 

His step joins theirs where earth-print fades. 

They silent watch the Ship of State, 

Through rock-strewn seas or narrow strait, 

’Neath Him from whom they drew their thought, 

And through His guidance wisely wrought, 

All moved with truth to their endeavor, 

And now for us our types forever ! 

— Republican-News , August 4, 1923. 




Not the King’s Will 


31 


MIXING MEDICINE AND LAW 


T HE consultation was over. With a sigh of pity the 
physicians returned to the living room to deliver the 
result of their conference. As they entered, a wo¬ 
man wan with watching, and whose cheeks bore the scarlet 
hue of hectic, met them with a questioning look. She had 
more need of the physician’s art than the hulk of humanity 
in the sick chamber. There he lay uttering groans and 
blasphemy, wholly insensible of the care she was bestowing 
on him and of her insistence that Dr. Eglin should summon 
Dr. Parrish from the city to add the weight of his great 
experience in overcoming the man’s illness. Her anxiety 
to know his opinion made her oblivious to the tow-headed 
children outside the window making merry at what they 
were hearing from the sick chamber. 

Eglin gave her an assuring smile. 

“It is as I have told you, Mrs. Bonn. Dave has been 
drinking heavily, and this is the delirium of alcohol; he 
will recover.” 

Dr. Parrish nodded his agreement and kindly added: 
“Dr. Eglin has spoken truly, my good woman. Your 
husband’s illness is not so serious but that you may expect 
a rapid convalescence. A matter of greater concern is 
vour own state of health; that, as one can see, is far from 
what it should be. Something must be done to make it bet¬ 
ter. No home is complete, where there are children, unless 
the mother is well.” 

The woman looked down and sighed heavily, but said 
nothing. She stood thus a moment, then went into the 
sick chamber and began caressing the scowling face. 

Leaving directions with the nurse, the physicians with¬ 
drew and soon were driving toward the little village a mile 
away. 

Eglin was the first to speak. 


32 


Not the King’s Wile 


“The poor devil!” he exclaimed sympathetically. “He 
is his own, and his family’s, worst enemy. With delirium 
tremens as his reward for dallying with the cup, and his 
wife’s wasted body from the trouble and worry she has had 
to endure, no sorrier picture can be imagined; especially 
when one uses the children, laughing at his incoherent 
ravings, as a background. It is a most unfortunate 
family.” 

Parrish nodded and observed: “Unfortunate does not 
cover the ground, doctor; the condition exceeds that defini¬ 
tion. A wife half consumed with hectic, half terrified by the 
maniacal cries of her alcohol-poisoned husband, and chil¬ 
dren drinking moral corruption every minute, such a 
family may well be called ‘desolated’.” 

“The amendment is accepted,” replied Eglin with a 
shiver. “I have been on the snow-capped peaks of the 
Rockies, and the utter desolated and lonely state of those 
regions does not exceed that of the Bonn family.” 

Parrish mused a moment. “Quite similar,” he said, 
smiling. “A person in either situation can change to a 
pleasanter one by taking the right course, or he can go 
onward and be lost in the tragical, unfriendly desert that 
girts him round.” 

“Yes ; but what about this woman?” asked Eglin. “She 
comes from a family proud of its ancestry, and was reared 
a woman of education and refinement. She was courted 
and won by Dave Bonn when he was a steady going young 
man, but who, in a prolonged illness after marriage, fell 
under the seductive influence of the spirit of wine. Real¬ 
izing, as she seems to do, that a serious mistake was made 
when liquor was prescribed for her husband, she has be¬ 
come more and more attached to him, even to the loss of 
her father and mother’s friendship, because of her devotion 
to a man whom she believes was wronged.” 

Parrish had listened attentively to the recital; at its 
close he made a gasture of impatience. “I am glad to 
know this,” he said. “It points to a duty, doctor—one 
that will supplement the efforts of that devoted wife to 



Not the King’s Well 


33 


lift a fallen husband to a better manhood. Where does 
Bonn get his liquor?” 

“Of the village saloonist.” 

“Can you not enlist the saloonist’s sympathies with this 
poor fellow’s family to the extent of refusing to sell 
him liquors?” 

“I do not know; I am willing to try.” 

“Then do so at your earliest opportunity.” 

An hour later, Eglin was closeted with the village saloon¬ 
ist. 

“I came to tell you a story, Mr. Yocum,” said the phy¬ 
sician, scarcely knowing where to begin, but his inward 
mentor urged him on. “It is a very trite story, as you 
will find.” 

“Go on,” said Yocum, his bleary eyes winking stupidly. 

“It is of a young man who married a sweet girl of a 
good family, and who, in a spell of sickness, acquired the 
appetite for strong drink. Years have passed since that. 
The spirit of the wine has permeated his being, thrilling 
him with its seductive languor, and enchanting him with 
its alluring solace. Affairs were neglected; hard times and 
disgrace came to the little family that was given the cou¬ 
ple, the wife pleading in vain for her husband to forsake 
his unnatural appetite and return to the love he had vowed 
at the altar. 

“To-day, a more wretched family cannot be found. In 
that home, a wife prematurely old from privation and the 
early stages of a wasting disease, and five children, without 
a hand to skillfully guide their way, are compelled to wit¬ 
ness the frenzy of the husband and father as he wages a 
war of shrieks and blasphemy against the horrors that 
beset him. Were it not for the continued kindness of neigh¬ 
bors, the life of the wife might have been sacrified to her 
husband’s unnatural insanity, and the little ones deprived 
of the only protector they possess who is morally com¬ 
petent and anxious that they will grow into good men and 
women. If the husband should die, the question would 
soon find a solution; but he will recover and return to his 
cups. The old scenes will be enacted over and over again, 


34 


Not the King’s Will 


unless some way is found to withhold liquor from him; 
that is what he profoundly desires, as his sober declara¬ 
tions have attested on many occasions. The duty that is 
due this family from humanity should be invoked to 
right the great wrong that has been thrust upon it, and a 
brave effort made to raise a fallen man to a better estate. 
Is not that a sad story, Mr. Yocum?” 

Yocum had become uneasy. He clutched his throat and 
choked down an oath. “I s’pose that lingo means Dave 
Bonn, does it?” he asked, leering and affecting a dignified 
pose. 

“Yes, it refers to David Bonn.” 

“I thought so,” replied Yocum moodily. “Well, I’ll 
soon tell you what I think. If Dave Bonn makes a fool of 
hisself and beggars out o’ his family, it’s nobody’s business 
so long as he pays for his booze.” 

In amazement, the physician looked at Yocum a mo¬ 
ment. “Will you not help make David Bonn a better 
man?” 

Yocum flashed, resentfully: “It’s none of my affair, 
Eglin, I ain’t got no string to Dave Bonn, I’d have you 
know.” 

“That may be, Mr. Yocum,” said the physician firmly. 
“But you could refuse to sell him liquor.” 

“What, you advise me?” he cried angrily. “Well, you 

go to - and mind your own business, an’ you’ll have 

enough to do.” 

Eglin smiled, but there was the light of a new determ¬ 
ination in his eye. “Thank you for the suggestion, Mr. 
Yocum,” he said, rising to depart. “I think I have been 
remiss in some of my duties in the past; but, hereafter, I 
shall act on your hint and attend the business of life as 
I should.” 

As predicted, Bonn made a rapid recovery. On his last 
visit, Eglin broached the subject of abstinence. 

“I wish to God I could leave the stuff alone,” Bonn 
cried, gazing lovingly into his wife’s face and returning the 
embrace which she gave. “When I go where it is, or get 
a whiff of a saloon, all my good resolutions forsake me 



Not the King’s Wile 


35 


and I just must satisfy the thirst which rages within me. 
O, if there were no saloons!” 

“Let us hope they will cease to exist,” replied the doctor, 
earnestly. 

A week later, as Eglin was returning from a call, he 
was surprised to meet Bonn staggering homeward. 

“How’re you, Doc?” he called, smiling with drunken 
good nature. “I tol’ Molly an’ the kids I’d git home 
early.” 

Eglin stopped and descended from his buggy. 

“I am sorry, David, to see you in this condition. 
What will the little woman think when you get home?” 

Bonn began whimpering: “O the dear woman, doctor! 
She’s been better’n I deserve. I had to go to town to get 
a few things, and Jed Yocum called me into his place and 
treated me. That drink made me wild for more, so I spent 
the money. That was this morning; now it’s way in the 
afternoon, for Yocum let me sleep in his back room till 
awhile ago, when he told me to go home.” 

“Has Yocum no sense of decency!” exclaimed Eglin, ab¬ 
stractedly. “Come, David; get into the buggy. We’ll get 
the articles you went for, and I will take you home.” 

On his return, the physician was busy with his thoughts. 

“There is no alternative,” he muttered, reviewing Bonn’s 
past. “David must be removed from temptation in one of 
two ways. If he cannot be kept from it, it must be kept 
from him.” 

With this resolution, the physician went about his tasks 
with renewed interest. 

Several visits to the county seat to interview the State’s 
Attorney followed, Eglin returning from each with in¬ 
creasing satisfaction. The culmination came when Jed 
Yocum stood at the bar of the court of common pleas to 
answer to an indictment, found by the grand jury, for the 
unlawful sale of liquor. 

“Not guilty!” was his answer. 

A few days later when evidence had been presented to 
the court and the petit jury, a verdict of guilty as charged 
in the indictment was returned. Eglin felt a throb of pity 


36 


Not the King’s Will 


for the saloonist when he rose to receive the court’s sen¬ 
tence, after a long review of the case. 

“It is ordered, therefore, that you, Jed Yocum, be fined 
fifty dollars and that you be imprisoned in the county jail 
for a period of twenty days, no part of which penalty shall 
be remitted.” 

The stillness of the court-room, which followed the sol¬ 
emnly pronounced sentence, impressed Eglin as had the 
noisy mania of Bonn some weeks before. He was on the 
point of leaving when he heard his name called: 

“Eglin! I say, Eglin; a word with you.” 

The physician turned to discover Yocum approaching. 
“What is it?” he asked. 

The saloonist presented his hand. “I always admires a 
man who beats my game,” he said. “You learned all there 
was in the lesson I give you, didn’t you? Well, your town 
win never again be bothered with my saloon. I’m out of 
the business!” 

“Thank you, Yocum. I see hope for poor David Bonn.” 

That evening as Dr. Eglin and his wife sat at dinner 
reviewing the day’s happenings, there was a timid knock 
at the window, and a low voice called: 

“Doctor Eglin!” 

Opening the door, they were surprised to have a veiled 
figure glide into their presence; the next instant the veil 
was raised. 

“Why, Mrs. Bonn!” they exclaimed. “What is wrong?” 

O, its about Joe Miller!” she cried, sinking into a 
chair. “He’s going to horse-whip you nearly to death for 
what you have done.” 

“Horse-whip me!” laughed Eglin. “That’s a flattering 

prospect, isn t it? Still, I suspect Joe is like a barking 
dog.” 

there is where you are mistaken!” exclaimed the 
excited woman, fixing her gaze on the physician. “Joe 
Miller will do as he says; he’s that kind. It made me so 
nervous to hear him tell Dave that I couldn’t help coming 
here to warn you of danger, and to bring you this.” 


Not the King’s Wile 


37 


She gave him a package. He removed its wrappings, 
disclosing a revolver, which he touched gingerly. 

“Why, my good woman, I am unused to firearms, and 
would have to learn all about this little gun.” 

“Then, do so, sir,” she pleaded. “Joe Miller thinks 
that the closing of Yocum’s place is the greatest offence 
you could have given the community; and do not forget, 
sir, that he will attempt what he has threatened. David 
is as thankful to you as I, for he knows he can reform now. 
He brought me as far as the village border where he waits 
my return.” 

Eglin accepted the weapon, his wife smiling her ap¬ 
proval. 

“All right, and thank you, Mrs. Bonn. I’ll set about 
learning how to manage this piece of firearms—how to 
send bullets to the mark.” 

It was several days before sickness called Eglin in the 
direction of his new-made enemy; but when the call did 
come, it was urgent, and away sped the physician toward 
the sufferer, his hat drawn down to avoid the pelting rain. 
Now up hill, then down and across the level with unchecked 
speed, leaving the village far behind, the spirited animal 
drew the faithful Eglin onward. Now and again a voice 
would call, “Hello, Doc!” as some one in a wayside shelter 
caught a view of the fleeting physician, or a yelping mon¬ 
grel would dash after him as if to increase his speed; but 
the doctor heeded neither, contenting himself with mo¬ 
mentary glimpses of the road in the blinding storm. 

Soon he would arrive at the bridge over Hemlock Creek. 
He meant to stop within its shelter to secure a dangling 
rein, and give a minute’s rest to the mettlesome filly. At 
its entrance, she shied, wavered, and then entered with re¬ 
luctant step. 

“Now, I’ve got ye!” were the ominous words that greeted 
Eglin’s ears before his eyes had accustomed themselves to 
the gloom within. As his vision cleared, he saw the gi¬ 
gantic form of Joe Miller slipping from a heavily loaded 
wagon which had been cramped so as to effectually block 



38 


Not the King’s Will 


passage through. The next moment, Miller was stepping 
forward, flourishing a long blacksnake whip. 

“Git out o’ that buggy, Mr. Busybody!” he yelled, 
cracking the lash sharply. “Git out, I say; here’s where 
I want ye,” he added, indicating a spot in the bridge. 
“Here’s where I’m going to whip ye within an inch of yer 
life!” 

“Why, Mr. Miller, what have I done that you should do 
that?” asked Eglin, carelessly dropping a hand downward. 

“For not attendin’ to your own business, that’s what. 
Come, no talkin’ back; jist climb out.” 

“Listen, Mr. Miller; I have never harmed you nor any 
of yours that you should injure me. Besides this, I am 
scarcely more than one-half your size and strength. A 
victory over me would be no credit to a giant like you. 
Therefore, allow me to pass; at some other time and 
place, let us settle our differences as become men. Will 
that not be the better way?” 

Muttering curses as he listened to the physician’s ap¬ 
peal, Miller broke into a fury of rage. “No, sir!” he de¬ 
clared. “Here and now. I’ve sworn I’d do it the first 
time I’d meet ye, an’ do it I will! I’ll give you a minute 
to git out of that rig; then, if you are hangin’ to that 
cushion, I’ll drag ye out by the scruff of the neck, and pelt 
you as long as I can find ye. Out, I say!” 

“I will not do it, sir.” 

“What!” screamed Miller, advancing again. “A 
damned fool dare fool with Joe—” 

He suddenly stopped, staring ahead in stupid surprise, 
as a calm voice commanded: 

“Halt! Another step, Joe Miller, and I will send your 
unhallowed soul into eternity.” 

Eglin was leaning forward in his carriage, pointing the 
revolver at his would-be assailant, his face set with de¬ 
termination. 

“Fight you, Joe Miller, I cannot; let you whip me, I 
will not; I will defend myself as becomes an imperiled man 
with the sure means within my power—this revolver!” 

Whether fear of death, or love of life, the moment did 



Not the King’s Wile 


89 


not disclose; but, actuated by an overwhelming induce¬ 
ment, Miller slunk backward until he could jump into his 
wagon and cluck his horses forward and lash them into a 
gallop to escape from that fearful bridge. 

Eglin looked after the rushing wagon with a grim smile. 
He was about to resume his drive when he heard a whole¬ 
some laugh and was surprised to see David Bonn’s amused 
face appear from beneath the bridge. 

“That was good, doctor; fine. I happened to be over 
yonder when I saw you two coming toward each other. I 
knew what that meant, so I hurried to get under the bridge 
so as to help you, if you needed it. But you didn’t, did 
you? What I’ve seen is worth a month of temperance 
lectures, twice over. And say, Doctor, what’s better than 
all, I believe that Molly’s gaining a pound a day!” 

—Bulletin American Academy of Medicine . 
September, 1909. 


•♦4sun* 


40 


Not the King’s Will 


life 

Life is not a burning fever, 

All a-rack with aches and pain, 

Where the pulse is quickly throbbing, 

And wild fancies throng the brain; 

Where the lips cry out for water 
To appease a raging thirst, 

And the muscles ever quiver 
With a hidden poison cursed. 

It is not a heavy burden 
To be borne in shade and sun, 

While the nerves, like bands, are bursting 
With a task not ever done— 

Now up hill and in the gloaming, 

Now in storm of hail and rain, 

While the weary back is breaking 
’Neath its load of work and pain! 

It is not a mildewed prison 
Shutting out the true and good, 

Save what through the bars is streaming 
Faintly in our solitude, 

Like a thing sent there to mock us 
In the darkness, chill and damp, 

While beyond the sun is beaming 
Like a living monstrous lamp. 

Life is not a fierce great battle 
Waged between our brother men; 

Cannon boom and musket rattle, 

Shot and shell on hill and glen, 

While in front, behind, between them, 

Lie the victims of the fray, 

Some in death and others wounded, 

Some the Blue and some the Gray. 



Not the King’s Wile 


41 


Not a fever, not a burden 
To be borne in shade and sun; 

Not a prison full of darkness, 

Not a battle ever done! 

Not a hell, nor yet a heaven, 

Is the world we’re living in; 

For, if hell, there’d be no goodness, 
And, if heaven, be no sin! 

But to those who ever murmur, 
Murmur day and month and year, 
Taking ever, never giving, 

Nothing see they can revere, 

Life may seem a raging fever, 
Burning all within its sway; 

Or, perchance a heavy burden 
Borne along each night and day. 

In the world of sense around us 
Much is seen that most regret; 

Some are scheming, as the spider, 
Where to place their cunning net; 
Some are fretting like a felon 
Whom the law has cast in jail, 
When another’s plans are fertile, 
And their weaker schemes must fail. 

Most are pressing for great riches, 
Scornful of the means they use; 
How or when they wrong a brother, 
Which or what law they abuse. 

Some dare hope to reap a million 
When they have a hundred sown, 

All forgetting, if succeeding, 

They will cause a brother’s groan. 

Gold and silver cause a fever, 

And its thirst is sore extreme; 

Pulse is bounding, nerves aquiver, 
And the life a selfish dream; 


42 


Not the King’s Wile 


There the sprites of the cerebrum 
Chase each other fast and slow; 
Breathings long then short and hurried, 
As its flushings come and go! 

Gold and silver make a burden, 

That their vassals shrinking bear; 
Trembling dread makes nights of waking, 
Taunting fear a day of care; 

So they are a cheerless prison 
Shutting out the true and good; 

Riches’ crust and narrow limits 
Force a life of solitude! 

Gold and silver cause a battle, 

Fierce and bloody, hot and long; 

Anxious each to catch a bauble, 

Careless each of other’s wrong; 

Some in ruin, some in triumph, 

Ever goes the mean affray, 

Some in death and others wounded, 

Some the Blue and some the Gray. 

Life is something thrust upon us, 

Ere our eyes have seen the light; 

It is something full of duties, 

Asking all our given might; 

Be a life however noted, 

Or how common it may be, 

It can flash a welcome beacon 
To the ships on Life’s sea! 

Duties cool a fevered body, 

They another’s burdens bear, 

Burst the jails of gold and silver, 

And a world-wide peace declare 
’Twixt forgiving and forgiven,— 

Hearts unselfish, tender, kind, 

Hearts made free of bitter ranklings, 
Hearts that meet and God can bind. 



Not the King’s Will 


43 


Years are moments, swiftly flying— 

Soon the life-thread will be spun; 

Better then that in its ending 
That its spinning be well done! 

Life is but a short probation, 

Be its years a few or more, 

Given man to fit his spirit 

For the home beyond Time’s shore. 

1882. —Holmes County Republican. 




THANKSGIVING 

(On the recovery of a friend from a serious illness.) 
Thanks! 

For a fear that has flown away. 

Thanks! 

For a dread that has gone astray. 

Thanks! 

For a canker that was chiseled out. 

Thanks! 

For a torture that was put to rout. 

Thanks! 

For a fever that failed one morn. 

Thanks! 

For a battle of its dangers shorn. 

Thanks! 

For a hope elate, complete. 

Thanks! 

For a life, refined and sweet. 

Thanks! 

To the Father who heard our hearts pray. 
Thanks! 

For the one who is coming home to-day. 


44 


Not the King’s Will 


THE DEAD 

Bed-time came and they were bidden 
Seek repose on Nature’s breast, 

There as guests be always hidden, 
Wrapped in kindness sweet, at rest. 

Hidden lie dear helpful faces, 

Motionless dear willing feet; 

Empty arms of love’s embraces, 

Mute the tongues that loved to greet. 

Blind the eyes to lips of smiling, 

Deaf the ears to song and praise, 

Dumb the hearts to scenes beguiling, 

And to Pleasure’s gala days. 

They are sleeping ’neath the willow, 
Each his narrow bed alone, 

Winding sheet and leaden pillow, 

Mounded earth and chiseled stone. 

All the sweetness of their living, 

Acts flung out from loving hearts, 

Months of cheer they had in giving, 
Mem’ry’s fragrance still imparts. 

Fond recall of home-knit rapture, 
Anchored thoughts from keepsake’s page, 
Hold us firm in their dear capture— 
These our dearest heritage! 





The Dead 



































Not the King’s Wile 


45 


LET THEM NOT POLLUTE 
THE FLAG 

“He was forced to take the oath of allegiance, and made to kiss 
the flag .’’—Newspaper Item. 

When knaves impugn the wondrous work 
Old Glory’s done in Freedom’s cause, 

And, sneering, would all homage shirk, 

Or set at naught its humane laws; 

If they would dare its sphere dispute, 

Or to their depths its glory drag, 

Just kneel them down in dumb salute, 

But do not let them kiss the flag! 

The kiss of love is holy, pure, 

The wealth of gold without alloy, 

The charm of home’s investiture, 

The fullness of a heart-felt joy. 

It prompts no selfish thought or act, 

Conceals no lie, reserves no plan, 

Nor seeks to keep a world war-wracked, 

Or discord sows from man to man. 

Unhallowed lips can smile and sing, 

Harped hillocks of the heart’s abyss; 

They meetly guard its deepmost spring, 

Or eke bestow betrayal’s kiss. 

When caught within the Eagle’s snare 
Smooth-spoken words will forthwith drag, 

And, gasping, homage full will swear— 

But let them not pollute the flag! 

No perjured lips should ever press 
The emblem of such holy fires 
As lights the shrine of knightliness 
’Mid kingly sons of kingly sires. 

Let him whose curse upon it falls, 

Whose love of carp he cannot quell, 

Though safe to thrive within its halls, 

Be sent at once, prepaid, to—well? 

May 2, 1918 —Columbus Evening Dispatch 



46 


Not the King’s Wile 


THE CHANGING YEAR 

A chilling breath is wafted round, 

A changing draught is floating near, 

On hill and dale a mournful sound 
And soft, bewails the changing year! 

The forest trees whose robes of green 

Were waved and tossed by Summer’s air, 
Have lost their gay and pleasing sheen 
And now autumnal colors wear. 

The scarlet, red and yellow leaves, 

The brown and sere, the varied hued, 

A garniture of brightness weaves 

For orchard, park and moaning wood. 
Upon the sward of sloping dell 
The acorn and the buckeye lie, 

Enveloped by the leaves that fell, 

Swept from their boughs the northwind by. 

The goldenrod, the aster, too, 

The pansy and the mount of snow, 

Have lost their bright and winsome hue; 

We miss their sweetness and their glow! 
Yon brownish vine whose yellow leaves 
Are falling, dropping day by day, 

Bears purple grapes like clustered sheaves 
Around the thresher’s tray . 

Yon stubble field, where lately stood 
The rustling corn, whose golden ears 
Had burst the husks of prison-hood, 

Stands like a mother in her tears, 
Lamenting loved ones gone. Her all 
Some ruthless hands have torn away; 
And in the winds the chestnut tall 
Bemoans and pities night and day. 


Not the King’s Will 


47 


Dear, in the changing of the years 
Behold the mirror of our days; 

See in that breath and draught our fears, 

Hear in the sound our mournful lays; 
Discern in lapsing leaves our forms, 
Transmuted youth to hoary age, 

That downward fly in life’s dark storms 
To earth—of flesh the heritage. 

Perceive in nuts and acorns, too, 

In clustered grapes and golden corn, 

The fruits that care and labor grew, 

The talents that our years adorn. 

See in the flowers the tender blooms 

That gathered round our sacred hearth, 

To brighten hearts, dispel their glooms, 

And lighten labor by their mirth. 

1881. —Holmes County Republican. 

•H88M* 

DEWEY AND SAMPSON 

There was a man of warrior mien, 

Who sailed his fleet one day 

To meet some Spaniards that were seen 
Around Manilla Bay. 

He kept his gunners brave readee, 

He kept his fleet in trim, 

And when he met the Spaniard, he 
Didn’t Dewey a thing to him! 

Another warrior steams away 
To prove his mighty name, 

And when he met a Spaniard gay, 

He changed the ancient game. 

No lion did he seek to kill 

With bone from Donkeytown; 

But with Americanish will 
He pulled his Cub-a down! 


1898. 



48 


Not the King’s Will 


WHAT JIM THOUGHT 

While Grandmother was a good old soul who meant well 
but had lost the enthusiasm and patience of her younger 
days, she was a bit tyrannical and not a little given to 
needless fault-finding. Her particular aversion was the 
noisy play of children. This, no doubt, was largely due to 
her long separation from the association of little folks, 
and, perhaps, because she bore the sorrows of widowhood 
too heavily. 

We all had the profoundest respect for her, and en¬ 
deavored to walk the “strait and narrow path” that led 
to her approbation; but young flesh and bubbling blood 
could not keep the valve of suppression on exuberant 
spirits eternally shut down, so there came a day of ex¬ 
plosion. 

We were having a holiday—seven as mischievous boys 
as could be found anywhere—and were playing tag, hide 
and seek, bull pen and other innocent games. We certainly 
made too much noise for the old lady’s comfort and pa¬ 
tience; for when Brother Jim ran by where she was sitting 
she seized him by the arm and held him fast. We all sensed 
the reason. 

Now, Jim was the clown, mimic and leader of all our 
boyish frolics. So between respect for our aged relative 
and loyalty to our leader, the others of us decorously 
gathered about them. She proceeded to lecture him upon 
noise in general and ours in particular. She scolded him 
for disturbing her knitting and other things equally hein¬ 
ous. To all of which Jim listened with respectful silence, 
his humiliation being almost painful to witness. 

When she finished and let go his arm, Jim fetched a 
deep sigh and said: 

“Grandma, I’ll bet grandpa’s glad he’s dead!” 





Not the King’s Will 


49 


THE KAISER’S DREAM 


Kaiser Bill, in Hun conceit, 

Dreamed of war without defeat 
With guns he’d slyly mustered for his foes; 

And the thought that filled his soul 
Offered him a world-crowned goal— 

None would dare his goose-step to oppose! 

Chorus 

Strut, strut, strut, 

His hordes went marching, 

Over lands and to the seas; 

From new heights his flag would float, 
Crushing nations near, remote, 

While their millions yield him homage on their knees. 

Addled by a bit he’d won 
From the weak, he ventured on, 

Torch and sword against the peace of Belgium; 
Then the Lily of fair France 
Rose to hinder his advance, 

And the British Lion o’er the Channel swum. 

Chorus 

Pound, pound, pound! 

He hammered ceaseless, 

Splint’ring fort and iron bar, 

Till his eyes were flushed with lust, 

Certain now that he could thrust 
Hun-made sway on peaceful peoples, near and far. 

Sanguine, marched his minions forth, 

East and west and south and north, 

Crushing rights of peoples underneath his heel; 




50 


Not the King’s Wile 


Reckless they of friend or foeman, 

Shameless they of child or woman, 

Since the earth must of their brutal harshness feel. 

Chorus 

Burn, kill, rape, 

Their deeds ran fiendish, 

Madmen drunk with human blood; 

Age and infants were as naught— 

Swords of war had not been taught 
Such should not be made to swell the crimson flood. 

,>V', ’ ■ 

i. .i 

Eastward borne, Old Glory’s gleam 
Blazed its wrath upon the dream— 

Nemesis in steel was standing at their gate! 

Loud they heard their frontiers ring, 

Dense with hosts swift entering, 

Stung to vengeance by the Lusitania’s fate. 

Chorus 

Boom, boom, boom! 

Their clans are thund’ring, 

Kaiser’s walls are tumbling o’er; 

Soon to Hail Columbia’s din, 

They will march through Old Berlin, 
With the banner of our f reeland at the fore! 

October 30, 1918. —Fostoria, Ohio, Daily Times. 





Not the King’s Will 


51 


OVER THE MASON’S WALL 

Bill Cutter knocked with might and main, 

Over the Masons’ wall, 

That he might hold the old goat’s rein, 

Over the Masons’ wall, 

And take degrees, though broken in two, 

And never once think of being untrue 
To brethren who swore he should have his due, 
Over the Masons’ wall! 

Chorus 

Over the Masons’ wall, 

The rarest ride of all; 

He cannot forget 
The rare old goat 
So sure to upset 
When degrees are afloat, 

Over the Masons’ wall. 

Bill Cutter gained the anteroom, 

Over the Masons’ wall, 

When soon he sensed his final doom, 

Over the Masons’ wall, 

As, strapped secure to the old goat’s back, 

It whirled him round the well-worn track, 

Till he crooked his legs and sprained his back, 
Over the Masons’ wall! 

Chorus 

Bill Cutter whined with many a quake, 

Over the Masons’ wall, 

That some one stop the dear old rake, 

Over the Masons’ wall, 


52 


Not the King’s Will 


But nothing was doing save speedier vim 
As if old Satan, rock-set and grim, 

Was striving to do his best with him, 

Over the Masons’ wall! 

Chorus 

Bill Cutter’s a worthy Mason now, 

Over the Masons’ wall, 

Adjusts his bib to Hiram’s vow, 

Over the Masons’ wall, 

And wife believes when he’s away nights, 

He’s giving degrees close by the Great Lights, 
And squares his compass by Masonic Rites, 
Over the Masons’ w r all! 

Chorus 


••ussfr*- 


Not the King’s Will 


53 


THE ACTOR 

Sing your songs and dance your jigs, 
And shout your laughs with glee; 

For other tongues and feet and hearts 
Await to catch your melody. 

It matters not on life’s brief stage 
The role to you assigned, 

So that you walk with eagle’s eye, 

Or grope like Bartimeus blind. 

Half of jest provokes a laugh, 

And half of love a sigh, 

As all of hate is not ill-will, 

Nor all of grief a bitter cry. 

Speak the words that form your part, 

In life’s fair comedy, 

That he who needs may take good cheer 
In life’s pathetic tragedy. 

All singers, speak naked truth 
With gestures meet, precise, 

Reflecting true, as mirrored glass— 
There’s where the only merit lies. 


•MS©*- 


54 


Not the King’s Will 


MY ROSE 

God gave me a rose. Its breath 
Than all the blooms that round me rise 
Is sweeter far. Its ruddy face 
Near to my heart inspiring lies. 

Wonderful and fair it’s flamed 
Through all the years that have been mine, 
Renewing self to meet the tasks 
Prepared for it by thought divine. 

Thus through all the years agone, 

Mid pleasure, pain or anxious care, 

Of petals strewn resurgence gave, 

And fragrance came their work to share. 

Hidden, open, have I borne 
The favor of my natal day; 

But wisely, rash or bold or weak, 

Permit my roll of actions say. 

Tell of petals scattered here, 

Say of fragrance given there; 

If did the face of sorrow smile, 

Did joyous looks bloom anywhere? 

God’s rose is still mine. The time 
When he shall call it to his hand 
Is His—to smile upon or frown, 

To bid decrease or, ay, expand! 


•MSB**- 


Not the King’s Will 


55 


DUMPVILLE ARISTOCRACY 

{Scene, the dump-ground of a small city; broken ket¬ 
tles, pans, cans, old shoes and boots, and endless profu¬ 
sion of refuse, with workmen adding more. Tyn Kan and 
Kracked Kettyl conversing; Tyn Kan dressed in multi¬ 
colored paper, Kracked Kettyl in sooty garments.) 

Tyn Kan. Friend Kettyl, does it not seem to you that 
our city is losing its prestige of being the center of ex¬ 
clusive, refined society? 

Kracked Kettyl. Yes, indeed, friend Kan; mine eyes 
could not be blind to such a grievous matter. It’s only 
because I am always desirous of prolonging the hap¬ 
piness of the old families that I chose to be silent. Now, 
however, since it is apparent to you, I will speak freely. 

T-Kan. It is the illogical throwing together of the 
classes, the reprehensible jumbling of parvenu and gentle¬ 
folk, that has filled my soul with horror and grieving. 
(Sighs heavily.) 

K-Kettyl. Be composed, dear old friend. Forget not 
that the oleaginous and the aqueous can never unite. 
Mingle them, mix them, as you may, but the oleaginous will 
not lose its identit}L So, all the Stove Pypes and Kholand- 
ers in the world could not perform the sacred duties of the 
Kans, Kettyls, Panns and Broyllieurs. 

T-Kan. True. I had forgotten our immutability. It is 
a great solace to be assured of a cultured friendship—its 
analogies relieve the sting of forced associations, its phil¬ 
osophies supplant fear with hope. So, we are assured, 
amid the mutations of time and the devastations of war, 
there will be a survival of the Kettyls, the Skillytts, the 
Leighdyls and the Chafengdyshes. 

K-Kettyl. One would be calloused, indeed, if she did not 
feel the pleasure of such sincere flattery. Did I say flat- 


56 


Not the King’s Will 


tery? It should not be dubbed such an opprobrious epithet. 
Rather, let it be defined more euphemistically, the courte¬ 
ous consideration which physical force accords cerebral 
endowments. 

T-Kan. How I envy you the years you spent in the 
shadow of old Yalevard! There you enriched your vocab¬ 
ulary with such words as will convey every shade of mean¬ 
ing and every tint of sensation. I have often wondered 
how one who had such immense opportunities could meet 
on a level one, like myself, who never got far away from 
the humdrum of Jeannhopkins. 

K-Kettyl. My dear Tyn Kan, you certainly do not 
realize the cruel mental pain you inflict by your dispar¬ 
agement, not only of yourself, but of one of me as well. 
Your family and mine have been intimate so many years, 
our likes and dislikes so similar, your position in society 
so permanently indispensable, that the Kettyls, though 
holding a very ancient, and, perhaps a superior, place in 
Culinary social standing, could not think of repudiating 
the friendship of the Tyn Kans. Please do not refer to 
your shortcomings again, if you value my inherent mental 
complacency. 

T-Kan. Forgive me, dear Kettyl. Your asurance has 
removed a great weight from my heart. I can now look 
the impudent Stove Pype in the face without flinching, 
and give her stony-stare when she attempts to engage me 
in gossip. She has been attempting to have me to listen 
to a tale about Old Shuze and Worn Butes. It’s a shock¬ 
ing story, and that is why I got to wondering if it were 
possible that the introduction of an unusual number of 
Old Shuze and Worn Butes into our community might not 
give chance for the spread of their dreadful infecting virus 
of prevarication. 

K-Kettyl. What is the story, my dear? 

T-Kan. Are you sure your delicate nerves will stand an 
awful strain? Here are my smelling salts. Please use them 
if the story I am about to tell you is overwhelmingly of¬ 
fensive. That’s right; hold it firmly against your nose. 

K-Kettyl. I am prepared, my dear. Let come, if needs 
be, the most scandalous gossip ever passed from tongue 


Not the King’s Will 


57 


to ear. Ah me! To what horrible straits are we pressed 
to become real intelligent! 

(Enter Tyny Kan.) 

Tyny Kan. Ma, 0 Ma, I want to tell you sump thin. 

(Enter Stue Pann.) 

Stue Pann. 0 Aunty Kettyl, I want to tell you sump- 
thin. 

T-Kan. What is it, my precious Tyny? 

K -Kettyl. My ears are ever open to your silvery voice, 
Stue Pann. You are my favorite niece, and eldest daugh¬ 
ter of my eldest brother, the eminent Wassh Bhoyler. 

Tyny Kan. Come over here, Ma; I want to whisper. 

Stue Pann. Aw, Aunty Kettyl, I don’t want any one to 
hear but you. It’s what I heard Tyny Kan tell Erthin 
J arr. 

Tyny Kan. ’Tisn’t so, Ma; I didn’t tell it. She said it 
herself. (K-Kettyl scowls at Tyny Kan; T-Kan frowns 
at Stue Pann.) 

Stue Pann. B-oo-oooo-hoooo ! What a lie! 

(Enter Irun Pott.) 

Iran Pott. I’m a common thing, am I? (Shakes her 
bail at K-Kettyl.) 

K-Kettyl. (To Tyny Kan.) Now then, don’t you dare 
contradict my darling niece. I’ll skin you alive if you do. 

T-Kan. (To Stue Pann.) If you so much as insinuate 
that my Tyny is guilty of such unlady-like thing as lying, 
I’ll break you into scrap. 

Irun Pott. (Louder and angrier than before.) I’m a 
common thing, am I, Kracked Kettyl? 

K-Kettyl. Beg your pardon, Irun. Were you address¬ 
ing me? 

Irun Pott. I most certainly was, if your name is Krack¬ 
ed Kettyl. 

K-Kettyl. That’s my cognomen, madam. (Proudly.) 

Irun Pott. Then, why did you tell Skillyt in the pres¬ 
ence of Kholander that I was an ignorant upstart, one 
of the common herd, and that you intended to black-ball 
me on the ballot for my membership in the Bessemer Steele 
Club? 


58 


Not the King’s Will 


K-Kettyl. Why Irun Pott, you shock me! Somebody 
catch me, I’m going to faint. I never said you was an up¬ 
start—0—. (Falls; T-Kan rushes to her side.) 

T-Kan. (Scowling on Irun Pott.) You mean thing, to 
insinuate that the noble heart of Kracked Kettyl would 
harbor such wicked thoughts! ( Kneels and applies re¬ 
storatives. Irun Pott stands boldy by; Stue Pann begins 
to weep at which Tyny Pann makes grimaces; T-Kan 
caresses Kettyl.) Poor dear Kracked Kettyl! Never will 
I believe you did this: you have had too many strong in¬ 
fluences to mould you into the lovable cultured, and chari¬ 
table person I know you to be. 

Tyny Kan. Ma, say, Ma! 

Stue Pann. O my poor aunty, she must be dying! 

Tyny Kan. (Aside.) No such good news! (Aloud.) 
Ma, Ma, Steal Spyder says she heard Kholander tell all 
the Gryddalls, the Stove Pypes, and the Dyysh Kloths, 
that Kracked Kettyl said those very words. 

(Enter Wyre Sieve who had been listening.) 

Wyre Sieve. Yes, and I heard her say so, too. (Exit.) 

Irun Pott. There, isn’t the proof sufficient? 

T-Kan. Hold your contents, Tyny. Maybe Kholander 
and Wyre Sieve are mistaken. They can’t hold informa¬ 
tion, you know. 

Tyny Kan. She said— 

T-Kan. Be still, will you! 

Stue Pan. My aunt never said Irun Pott was an up¬ 
start, so she didn’t. I’ll have old Irun Pott arrested for 
murder. 

Tyny Kan. Hear! They admit saying Irun Pott is 
ignorant. And, Ma, Kracked Kettyl said all the Potts and 
the Krocks, the Juggs and Muggs, as well as the Tyn 
Kans come from long Knect Ghoards, and that Dump- 
ville could have no real aristocracy outside the Kettvls, 
the Panns, the Skyllitts and the Broyllieurs; but she ad¬ 
mitted that the Wroasters, the Perkulators, the Basynns 
and the Dhemmajonns were of good families; I heard her 
tell it. ( T-Kan rises , convinced; Irun Pott dances for 

joy-) 




Not the King’s Wile 


59 


(A procession of Decanters, Phlasks, Basketts, 
rilss, Tubbs, Paills, Krates, Pittchers, Bhowls, Kanteens, 
Bhottulls and Pyggins roll over the stage uttering cries 
of agreement with Tyny Kan. But after these came a 
crowd of Panns, Skyllitts, Kettyls, Cupps, Tumbblers, 
Toorheins, Broyllieurs and Platters, all sadly worn and 
seamed with time, but crying, “Down with the Tyn 
Kans!”) 

I-Pott. There, Tyn Kan! How do you feel for that? 
Ha, ha, ha, ho, ho! ( Tyn Kan seizes Tyny and rushes out, 
casting angry glances at the prostrate K-Kettyl.) 

Stue Pann. My poor aunt! (Falls at K-Kettyl’s side, 
weeping.) 

I-Pott. Yes, the dear old gossip—maker of trouble— 
breeder of contention, and neighborhood quarrels. The 
dear damned old dear! ( K-Kettyl shows signs of return¬ 
ing life and Stue Pann laughs hysterically. Irun Pott 
looks disgusted.) 

K-Kettyl. (Arising to sitting posture and confusedly 
looking around.) What a terrible dream I’ve had! So 
realistic, so piercingly sharp, yet horrible, the whole fan- 
tasm seems. I imagined that a tremendous devouring 
Dinotherium came snorting on the scene— 

I-Pott. (Interrupting.) Thus does the guilty con¬ 
science clothe very normal objects with hideousness. 

Stue Pann. Poor aunty’s mind wanders. 

I-Pott. Ay, the same as Stove Pype’s joint—never 
right. May it wander into realm of truthfulness! 

K-Kettyl. ( Continuing, and oblivious of Irun Pott and 
Stue Pann .)—and asserted that I, Ivracked Kettyl, had 
said unkind words concerning the noble Irun Pott, with¬ 
out whom the mightiest of all Dumpville could not long 
survive; so elegant, so refined, and so— 

I-Pott. Gee! Her trolley’s on all right. Ahem, ahem! 

Stue Pann. Stark, staring mad, is the dear old soul! 

K-Kettyl. (Again continuing.)—generous. Tyn Kan 
with all her sleek ways and her subtle machinations, can 
never, never change my sentiments. The Steale Irun Club 
is unworthy of Irun Pott’s impeccable self, and it must, it 




60 


Not the King’s Will 


will open its doors to one greater than itself. O where am 
I? Stue Pann, Stiie Pann! 

Stue Pann. What is it, aunty? 

K-Kettyl. When have your eyes feasted on the noble 
Irun Pott? 

Stue Pann. The old curmudgeon, I— 

K-Kettyl. Stue Pann! Shame on you! 

I-Pott. Down brakes a little, Irun. The Potts’ have 
long ears. 

K-Kettyl. Stue Pann, have you seen— 

Stue Pann. (Interrupting.) Why, Aunty Kettyl, the 
old blatherskite is right in front of you! 

K-Kettyl. (Peering round.) Dear Irun Pott, I— 

I-Pott. (Advancing .) My honored sister, allow me to 
help you rise. There; lean on me. You appear emotional. 

K-Kettyl. O if you knew but a thousandth of the heart¬ 
aches I endure because of the gossiping Tyn Kan. 

I-Pott. Dear, dear heart, forget your worries in an 
hour’s stay with me. I would descant on poesy and music. 

K-Kettyl. Nay, let me to the wild beasts of the fields; 
’twill be more in harmony with the mood in which the nig¬ 
gardly and low-born Tyn Kan leaves me. Descant on 
poesy and music to the deserving, but let me say that from 
the days of primeval utensils, the Potts and the Kettyls 
have been honored with the first rank among them all, but 
the Kans are recent, mere servants of the Potts and the 
Kettyls. 

Stue Pan. Of all the tinkling cymbals, focus your ears 
on that! 

I-Pott. (Glancing at K-Kettyl.) The hypocrite! 

K-Kettyl. (With furtive glance at I-Pott.) The silly 
old fool! 

I-Pott. (Offering her hail to Kettyl.) Come, let us 
walk through the busy street that all may see the spirit 
of our friendship. 

K-Kettyl. And teach the Silly Tyn Kan that, because 
the great and gifted waste a smile on her, she has no right 


Not the King’s Will 


61 


to imagine that she will receive real social recognition. 
(Exit.) 

Stue Pann. I’m all in! Completely confounded and 
planet-struck in a fog! Wasn’t it the immortal Bill that 
said, “A goodly apple rotten at the heart; O what a good¬ 
ly outside falsehood hath!” (Exit.) 


•HUSH* 

THE VOYAGERS 

We are floating down the river, 

Down the river of young dreams— 

Way that stretches out forever, 

Way of joy and sunny beams. 

Down the river of contentment, 
Flower-hedged and broad and free, 

Of our dreams a rich presentment, 
Flowing on so happily. 

Vanished long has childhood’s playground, 
Lost to view is schoolday’s shore, 

Plowed have we through currents varied— 
How we plied the onward oar! 

We are floating all enchanted; 

Children, yet a happy twain, 

Silver-bound and golden-haunted, 

Thrall and monarch, Love and Swain. 

Far behind the Hills Espousal, 

Dimly fading to the eye; 

Still the song of life’s carousal 
With youth’s sunshine dares to vie. 

Float we on to ending never, 

Down the river of young dreams, 

Way that stretches out forever, 

Earth with Heaven interstreams! 


62 


Not the King’s Wile 


THESE BEAUTIFUL THINGS 

It’s a beautiful star that pierces the night 
Flashing, where shadows lie heavy and deep, 

A message of love from the Harbour of light, 
Enjoining the weary gain respite in sleep. 

It’s a beautiful song that comforts and holds 
Gladly in thrall to sweet fancy’s embrace, 

As out of the past arise scenes from its folds, 

And near to its own draws a darling’s dear face. 

It’s a beautiful word that assuages a pain, 

Takes from the heart a withering care, 

And evens a snarl in life’s tangled skein, 

Or lightens the load which the spent shoulders bear. 

It’s a beautiful hand that is given our own, 

Reaching it fondly in friendship’s strong clasp, 

Till all of the dampness which torpor has shown 
Is lost in the warmth of that neighborly grasp. 

It’ s a beautiful face that delights with a smile, 

Alien or comrade; and it blesses and cheers, 

With comforting thoughts and hopes that beguile 
The soul from its sadness, the eyes from their tears! 

It’s the beautiful road that circles the waste— 

Cactus and greasewood and waterless veins— 

If, after the trudge and the hardships embraced 
It leads to a cottage where Love holds the reins. 

To the doctors who give, in their labors each day, 

Of the wealth of their strength to the ailing and halt, 
How these beautiful things embroider their way, 

Give zest to their duties and their natures exalt! 

July, 1922. 


—Medical Pickwick. 


Not the King’s Will 


63 


XYLOL 

Xylol was a Xanthian, 

He kept a xanthic inn; 

Because lie was Xavernian 
Xantippe wore a grin; 

For Soc had died of xylotone— 
Swift Xanthus told the tale— 

He thought it was choice xenium 
From where the xenolites hail. 

Xantippe’s widowhood began; 
Xylol’s hopes ran big and high; 
He went into Xanthusian 
And bought a xbec on the sly. 

Then he bought a xylophone; 

Like Xenophon, he ran 
To seek Xantippe all alone 
To be her xenodochy man. 

But Xerxes young, A Xingu king, 
With red xylose and xanthein, 
Outrivaled him with xanthic ring 
Beside a bunch of xyloidin. 

This last in xanthelitic state 
She laid within the narrow xyst; 
When Xylol went to learn his fate 
She blew him into xenon mist. 





64 


Not the King’s Wile 


QUITE NATURAL 

Quite natural, when roads are smooth, 

Sweet spicy breezes blowing; 

When landscapes pass that please and soothe 
Like crystal waters flowing, 

That hope and joy should rise, upswell, 

To keep the fancies busy 
With thoughts of those that these foretell, 
When riding out in Lizzie. 

Quite natural, when roads are rough, 

Black storm-tossed heavens pouring; 

When naked rocks and grime of dough 
Of highways are the flooring, 

That jar and splash should, merrily, 

Their league of pests keep busy, 

And rob the drive of gaiety 
When riding out in Lizzie. 

Quite natural, when seas of slush 
No ground-floor has for flivvers— 

When gulfs of mud all headway crush, 

And give each spine the shivers, 

That conscious thought, though thunderstruck, 
Sends forth strong words and frizzy, 

To picture clear the durnedest luck, 

When riding out in Lizzie. 

Quite natural, a willing team 

The fretful mood soon chastens, 

And dollars pass ’twixt smile and beam, 

And on the way one hastens, 

Till groove from well to roadway marsh 
Both head and heart makes dizzy 
By telling how, in language harsh, 

The gulf was there for Lizzie. 



Quite Natural 






Not the King’s Will 


65 


A NATION’S GRIEF 

While holding a public reception in the temple of music 
at Buffalo about 4 p. m., September 6, President McKin¬ 
ley was shot by an assassin.—It is feared that the wounds 
are fatal. — Hopes are entertained. — He is sinking.— 
President McKinley died at 2.15 a. m., eastern standard 
time, September 14.— Telegrams in the daily press. 

Woe! Woe! Woe! 

The chiefest one has fallen, 

Has fallen ’neath a murd’rer’s hand! 

The Angel White doth hover o’er him, 

And fear and gloom enshroud the land! 

The wounds that gape are Nation’s wounds, 
Though borne by one—a monster’s hate! 

The blood that flows is Nation’s blood, 

Though spent by one, the Chief of State! 

The pains that rack are Nation’s pains, 

Each member feels their cruel grate! 

A household’s grief is a Nation’s grief; 

With trembling hearts we hope and wait! 

Hush! Hush ! Hush! 

Step softly, slow and solemn, 

With bated breath and drooping head. 

Our quivering hands agrasp, whilst doubt 
Has blanched the cheek with dread! 

Then whisper faintly each to each, 

As children to a sorrow brought 
When father lieth low at home! 

That father by whose wisdom taught 
Our feet to walk aright life’s way, 

And hedged impulse by wise forethought— 

The type of man’s mature estate 

Whose deeds the common weal have wrought! 




66 


Not the King’s Will 


Pray! Pray! Pray! 

On bended knees petition 
The God of Heaven, of this cup 
Of gall a murd’rer’s hand has placed 
Before our lips, we may not sup 
The bitt’rst dregs, nor mourn as they 
That hopeless are and all undone! 

He reigneth, and thick dark clouds 
As pillars stand about His throne! 

His vengeance and His justice stern 
Attendant wait, while mercy’s tone 
Is hushed; her ear is earthward turned, 

And hears, “His will, not ours, be done!” 

Weep ! Weep ! Weep! 

And mourn, O Columbia, 

And toll your bells from sea to sea! 

For rankest savagery malign 
Has darked your year of jubilee! 

Thy Christian Chief lies yonder, dead, 

The victim of a fiend’s design! 

Yea, weep with her whose widowed tears 
Are thine, and her affliction thine! 

’Twas hers to love, to fashion, give, 

Her noble dead for thee. Her shrine 

Became humanity’s ; his glance 

Thy course ’mong nations, will divine! 

His care thy greatness, thy renown; 

His joy a stainless honor thine! 

September, 1901. —Free Press . 





Not the King’s Wile 


67 


A LITERARY TRAMP 


H E WAS an old Croker and Skinner and was far 
from Home, and had been Fuller many a time 
than that Day. He leisurely walked up the Lane 
to the House of the Farmer, hoping to find no one there 
but the Young to Ascham for bread. He sauntered up to 
the Doran listened, but heard no one Speke. Joy illumined 
his face; he mentally recited Excelsior, which seemed to 
Tickall him all over. 

He Knox gently at first, then louder, and terminated in 
a regular Peele—enough to make nine Quarles. 

And he raised the whole Carew. 

The Key of the Locke was turned with Speed, and a 
woman, dressed in Yellowplush, and whose Face was her 
Fortune, screamed: 

“Watts wanted?” 

“Dinner Fordun out travelers.” 

“Gough, you villain!” and she rang the Bellenden called: 
“Here, Howells!” 

“As if I Caird,” he mused. “Akin Tannahill full of wo¬ 
men and dogs.” 

Casting a look backward, he saw the old Grainger him¬ 
self Picken up a Kirby rake which made his Hare Staun¬ 
ton end. 

“The Nemesis of Faith Froude at me again!” Hesiod 
to himself, and then wreathing his face in Smiles, he ad¬ 
dressed DeFoe. 

“Senior, circumstances Simms Toland me among the 
unfortunate, but as westward the Course of Empire takes 

its way, so I am but seeking-” 

“All fools that you can Steele from. Now travel and 
no apologies, or your head will be every Inchbald in a 
Minot.” 

Our hero looked around. The dog was making his teeth 




68 


Not the King’s Will 


Sharpe on a Whetstone which seemed only to Madden 
him; the woman had a window raised and had a Caldron 
of water just from the Boyle, while the Grainger with 
Sterne Lucasta a glance which indicated that here was the 
Judge and the Victim. 

“The Douce!” he said. “The dog wants my Meteyard; 
the woman Wood Wither me, while to be moved in the mode 
I’m offered is to be declined. I’ll travel. You see Ilowitt 

is, Circumstances alter-but what a Silliman you are; 

you May entertain an angel-” 

“Entertain the Dickens!” growled the man, and the 
rake began to Turner round, the dog grabbed our hero’s 
trousers and Feltham while the woman Broughton the hot 
water. “You’re a thief!” 

“Tasso,” put in the woman, and the dog began to 
Munch Savage. 

The tramp looked Haggard; he expected to Dodge into 
the Fields to escape Payne; it would Mena Swift Marvell 
if he could Keary out his plan to Russell where nothing 
Hertz. Yet, he was not Wilde enough to be a Hogg. If 
the Longfellow was such a Trollope as to depend on a 
woman Helper, he would be too much of a Lamb to Lever 
even if she had a Warton her nose and was Moodie; her 
sort were, usually, Cats, and he couldn’t Cooper; she 
meant Welby him. She would not Cook, Wither nor Kol- 
lar him, even if he was Gay and shook like a Hare. This 
was the Key to the whole matter, even if it Costa Cari 
Mone; even, also, if she Razes Caine Hoppin Hillarius 
every two Weeks. Our hero Ken that; they didn’t Need¬ 
ham. He began to Hunt Lee Way, but the Sterne Mann 
Knox it Hier than Gildersleeve’s Kitchin. He came Gun¬ 
ning, Graves in his Manners. He Rumbold: 

“What is friendship but a name; old friends are best. 
Circumstances alter cases; when a lady’s in the case, I 
see a wild civility—the real Simon pure, the sweet civili¬ 
ties of life. I own the soft impeachment: Too civil by half. 
One half of the world knoweth not how the other half 
liveth; care’s an enemy to life. Enemies shall lick the 
dust; no tears are shed when an enemy dies. If you have 




Not the King’s Will 


69 


tears, prepare to shed them now; now’s the day and now’s 
the hour. The past is gone; ay, past all surgery. No time 
like the present; present fears are less than horrible im¬ 
aginings. True as fate, past and to come seems best; things 
present worst. Even-handed justice preacheth patience. 
Patience may compass anything. We hug the dear deceit. 
Forced by fate, beware the fury of a patient man. I 
am here: I shall remain here; hell is full of good inten¬ 
tions ; unto the pure all things are pure, yesterday, and 
to-day, and forever. Old lovers are soundest. Go, poor 
devil, get thee gone! I’ll do with you as I Hurd Squire 
Ramsay Heywood with the fellow who stole his Dryden 
Greene Bacon: I’ll Skene you alive. At him, Howe!” 

The tramp began to Hedge. “Don’t be Puttenham on 
me, Domet!” he Praed. “And don’t be Scarron me after 
such a Prior Schelling,” he added. “I’ll be gone,” and he 
moved off Smart. 

They watched him Tramp, Tramp, Tramp down the 
Lane. In the road he stopped and mused. “Weldon, Wel¬ 
don ! Howe Everett is an Akenside Agassiz not to be 
courted from Raikes or a Ker either, and what a Rowe 
that woman could make—Sheil Crowe over this to every 
Napier she can Barrow from. However, there’s the 
Rhodes; so good-night and joy be with ye a’.” 

—From Poetical Compositions. 





70 


Not the King’s Wile 


THE GREATER PEACE 

The guns of War are silent. Where 
The tramp of armed men fell still 
Beneath the voice of war, ’tis there 
The shout of Victory is shrill. 

Could mortal sense but read the sky, 

Or wake to sound and presence near, 

There hosts who marched to death outvie 
The throngs that sing of vict’ry here. 

Yea, Victory and Peace to Earth! 

The shad’wy hosts and living throngs, 

With thoughts of love and cherished hearth, 
Concerted sing the home-loved songs, 

As marching on, past silenced guns, 

The freedom of the world their goal, 

To vanquish subtler foes than Huns— 

The deadly vices of the soul. 

Because of this, the mothers’ hearts 
That sank with dread at war’s advance, 

And seeming broke beneath its darts, 

When Valor called their sons to France, 

Know now the dead and living fight 
A cleansing war that will not cease 
Until the world is filled with light 
And Purity; and this is Peace! 

November, 1919. —Medical Pickwick. 





Not the King’s Will 


71 


THE DOCTORS AT HOME 

Following are a few of the thoughts that came at a 
banquet given in November, 1919, by the Knox County, 
Ohio, Medical Society to its members who served in some 
capacity in the medical corps of the United States Army 
in the World War. Knox County, at that time, had about 
fifty physicians in its borders, fourteen of these were in 
service. 

Amen! All honor to the four and ten 
Who dwelt where fortune cast her glance, 

That they could answer to the cry 

Which Freedom, writhing, sent from France. 

They loved their art; they willing trod, 

With fearlessness the world reveres, 

The path which led where duty called, 

And lent the fruitage of their years. 

For work well done their hearts must feel 
That cheerful glow which hopes presage 
Will brighter shine as years roll on 
To rest a crown on honored age. 


Their names are with that noble throng 
On Fealty’s scroll, engraven high, 

As they who gave and faltered not 
If in that giving meant to die. 

But are these all of whom we boast? 
Were other hearts the less sincere, 
When suffering called aloud for help, 
And fifty men could answer “Here!”? 


72 


Not the King’s Wiel 


No! Fifty doctors loved the flag, 

Whose love for it to none would yield; 
They found the ways were closed to them 
To serve its needs upon the field. 

The hearts of all are wondrous like; 
Great love of country dwells in each; 

If wrong inflicts on her a wound, 

’Tis ev’ry one who’d heal the breach! 

So, when old Knox’s roll was called, 

There rose a ready, loyal cheer, 

As, from the ranks of Medicine, 

Lo! Fifty doctors answered “Here!” 

But suff’ring is a grouchy jade; 

No rights but hers will she advance; 

True to her sex, refused to be 
Transported to the fields of France. 

Now while it courage takes to tread 
Where dangers lurk in ev’ry breath— 
Where men of steel creep forth, alert, 

To keep a rendevous with death, 

It took as brave a heart to crush 
The soul-expanding thrills that came 
When Freedom’s flag sent forth its cry, 
And civil tasks pronounced his name! 

To do his duty is the doctor’s grain, 

The one religion that he lives, 

And to that end, come weal, come woe, 

His heart and soul unsparing gives. 

His wish may yearn to scale the heights 
Where glory sits, mid clouds of gold, 

Or wrest from Fame her choicest wreath 
To crown his brow with joys untold. 


Not the King’s Wile 


73 


But, should the moanings of a child, 

Or travail’s anguish, reach his ear, 

The calls of pain rise mountain high 
And grandeur’s visions disappear. 

The plaudits of the multitude 
Die in the distance of disease, 

And through his heart Love’s symphonies 
Bring to his work compassion’s ease! 




THE HEART DESERTED 

Unto your shrine of smiles I gave 
A heart sincere; it all was thine. 

I prayed that God might us enslave 
To Love, and you be always mine. 

But since the day that we were wed, 

When all the world seemed mine and vours, 

«> ' 

Another’s tongue your thoughts have led, 
Another’s smiles mine own obscures. 

So as I plead as to dear God, 

That love of yore be ours again, 

Mock not me with your scornful nod, 

Nor turn to him who makes us twain. 

I linger near the hallowed nest 
That knew us ere the tempter came, 

To lure from it its choicest guest, 

Take from its hearth a holy flame. 

On bended knee, O Love of mine, 

A hungry heart for comfort pleads: 

Pleads hope for mine, and joy for thine, 
And ours the bliss where rapture leads. 


74 


Not the King’s Will 


A TRIBUTE TO THE FLAG 

Delivered, as president of the Board of Education, at 
the presentation of a Flag to the Fredericktown Schools 
by the Juniors of the High School, “Columbus Day,” Fri¬ 
day, October 21, 1892. 

Proud Flag of our Country, the Crown of the free, 
Insignia pure and the scepter sublime, 

The sovereign Mace and the Minister Prime, 

The first of all banners on land or on sea, 

We offer this tribute as one devotee. 

The dawn of our freedom was morn of your birth, 

When tyranny sought to grind into dust 
The rights of our fathers by statutes unjust— 

’Mid tears of rejoicing, you flashed on their hearth 
To jostle and humble the kings of the earth. 

Your mottos are chiseled on Columbia’s Hall 
In letters of granite which none can destroy, 

And slaves of all nations have heard them with joy: 
“Good will unto men!” and “The world without thrall!” 
And “Peace upon earth with to happiness all!” 

From roaring of cannon, from shrieking of shell, 

In rattle of musket and flash of the sword, 

When havoc and carnage on ev’ry hand poured, 

To stain the fair earth with the battle’s red hell, 

Has ever proceeded the shout: “All is well!” 

And strong have you grown since Washington’s day, 
Since Princeton and Trenton and Yorktown were won, 

An ensign of Justice, its course scarce begun; 

For onward and upward shall bear you your sway 
To greatness and glory, with love as your stay. 


Not the King’s Will 


75 


A people contented, fair-minded and strong— 

The bulwark unfailing when harm would destroy 
The wealth of that freedom you gave for men’s joy— 
Whose voice is your flap and your triumphs their song, 
Will serve you and love you the cycles along. 

Then on, Noble Standard, float onward and on! 

The millions will vigil your stripes and your stars, 

And clear from your path all the hindering bars, 
While you of all progress will stand at the dawn, 

And, under Jehovah, bid offenses begone. 




THE POTTER 


“Yes, wife, he will live!” 

Thus may the Potter say 
When flesh becometh clay. 

And may no mourning voice 
Be raised when death shall call, 

To cast into some better mold, 

The clay that she hath loved, 

Sheer lone let her confiding pray 
That to the pattern yield it may, 

And from the die perfected fall. 

“Yes, wife, he shall live!” 

Let then the Potter’s voice declare. 
“Upon my Word to man I sware 
That though he then were dead, 

And earth not know his tread, 

Yet, for the blood on Calv’ry spilled, 

To him whose faith is fixed on Me, 

The grave shall lose its victory, 

And, born to Life from that dark pit, 

I will that he this day shall rise 
An heir with Christ to live in Paradise.” 


76 


Not the King’s Will 


MEMORIES 

How sweetly there lingers in memory’s halls 
The scenes of my childhood and home! 

How often their laughter upon my ear falls, 

As over their fields in fancy I roam 

To gather their flowers, to clamber their walls, 

Or dig me a shallow well in the soft loam! 

Again with my playmates I play the same games! 

We hide and go seeking the same as in yore, 

And, branded anew with our old pseudo-names, 

We mimic our elders; we go to the war 
And win us great trophies and glorious fames, 

Still better and greater than ever before! 

There’s father and mother! They’re watching us play; 
They smile to each other in loving good cheer; 

A soldier has fallen, gone down in the fray, 

And quickly is carried, ill-used, to the rear; 

There mother soon kisses the tears all away, 

And father assures him he has nothing to fear! 

Yes, memory throngs with a thousand such scenes, 
Embittered at times by trouble and care, 

Or shocked into dumbness when death intervenes, 

And leaves us dear sister’s revered vacant chair. 

And always I turn to the tall evergreens, 

Because a dear comrade is hid from me there! 




Not the King’s Will 


77 


THE WARRIOR, STATESMAN 
AND CHRISTIAN 

Warrior, you who have lead armies 
On to victory, have spread desolation 
Far and wide; have never quailed before 
The awful cannon nor the shrieks of the dying; 
Had honors and fame added to conquest 
And cession of land, when you are gone 
Another shall lead your armies and wage 
Desolation wider and farther than you, shall be 
As brave upon the field; he shall reap your 
Honors and fame, while your name will have 
But the eternity of history. 

Statesman, you who have planned and worked 
Over the form of government until you have 
Achieved renown, seen laws become just 
And rulers wise, and have been the stay 
And prop of country, the master of civil, 

State and International law; you shall go 
To your place and be no more, save 
Your lustre shining in the courts of your land, 
And on the blazoned page historic, and others 
Shall take the reins and guide 
The Ship of State as wisely as you. 

Christian, you who have suffered much, 

And endured much for the Master’s sake; 

Have been reviled of men, buffeted by devils, 

And have kept faith withal, when Time is over 
You will receive a crown of life and sit 
On the right hand of Majesty on high, 

A joint hero with Christ, our Lord, in all 
The glory and richness of heaven, its joys and bliss ; 
Your hopes end in fruition, your faith in sight; 
For whose name is enrolled in the Lamb’s Book 
Shall have honor, fame and peace everlasting. 


78 


Not the King’s Will 


HON. SPECKLED FROG 

A Fable of Cranberry Marsh. 



ANADIAN THISTLE and Spanish Needle heard 
a rasping sound. 

“Croak, croak!” 

Thistle turned his snowy head and saw Speckled Frog 
sticking his nose from the ooze of Cranberry Marsh. 
Blinking lazily, he viewed the tw r o friends standing near 
the edge of the water. 

“Croak, croak!” authoritatively. 

Thistle nodded to Needle and whispered: 

“The others will be less noisy now. Great travel has 
made his nibs sleeker than before. Let’s have an eye on 
him, Friend Needle; we will see something interesting.” 

Needle let fall a shower of awns, so delighted was he at 
the prospect that Thistle held out. He had been trying to 
construct a new sort of barb, but a terrific racket, issu¬ 
ing from a swarm of noisy amphibians, had hindered. So, 
while the appearance of Speckled Frog silenced most of 
his annoyers, there still remained a few noisy throats. 

“I cannot tolerate that fellow’s egotism,” declared 
Needle, keeping an eye on Speckled who was hopping up 
the bank with pompous leisure. 

Canadian Thistle blew a feather toward Needle with 
a look of sympathy, but Spanish saw nothing but the ob¬ 
ject of his disdain. Thistle was not easily discouraged. 
He began tickling Needle into noticing the servile atti¬ 
tude of the now silent amphibians, but the angelic face of 
Speckled Frog was too attractive; besides, Needle shrewd¬ 
ly guessed the cause of Frog’s patronizing air, and he had 
no desire to look on flunkeyism. 

“Croak, croak!” twanged Speckled, full of admiration 
for his black-spotted green coat, and determined to be 



Cranberry Marsh 































Not the King’s Will 


79 


slow to speech among his tuft-hunting satellites. Per¬ 
haps it was because he had overheard it said that there 
was no scarcity of bugs and flies after he had declared 
such a condition existed. Frog did not care to discuss 
certain matters with such unreasonable fellows—he usu¬ 
ally awed malcontents into acquiescence by the majesty 
of his presence. 

“You see,” explained Canadian Thistle to Spanish 
Needle, as Frog drew himself into a bunch of very su¬ 
perior wisdom, “Speckled is the only one of Cranberry 
Marsh who has traveled over the United Pools of Frog- 
dom. On his return he told the Marsh of the irregular 
outlines of the fatherland—its bays, fens, bogs, quag¬ 
mires, lagoons, coves, tarns, pools, marshes and morasses; 
explained its interior with its wonderful rivers, grasses, 
mosses, inexhaustible stores of eating materials and its 
hidden mysteries. 

“Besides, he is the only citizen who has attended a ses¬ 
sion of the Froggery, the Batrachian Congress, which 
enacts the laws for the governing of The United Pools of 
Frogdom. And what made him still more awe-inspiring 
to thousands was that he had attended a reception at 
Marble Pool, in the city of Batrachia, and had fantas¬ 
tically hopped around the ball room with Great Bull 
Frog. Great Bull Frog is an astute politician-statesman 
who makes it a point to know those of whom it is expected 
that they may rise to prominence. 

“Now, Speckled Frog had early become imbued with 
the idea that he was to be a perennial aspirator of the 
public pap, in the most liberal sense of the word. But it 
was not until after these extensive travels had been made 
and these honors secured that Frog’s aspirations assumed 
definite shape. On his return yesterday, as we saw, before 
plumping into his native pool, he gave his voice a deeper 
tone and his hop an irreproachable decorum.” 

Determined to know all that followed these interesting 
beginnings, Canadian Thistle and Spanish Needle pro¬ 
cured an air and water-tight, self-feeding and self-de¬ 
veloping cinematelephotophonographic machine. This 


80 


Not the King’s Wile 


long name, because of the brevity of life, they were com 
pelled to shorten to moto-phonograph; but this did not 
impair the efficiency of the machine in the least. Indeed, 
it helped them to remember all its various parts when they 
installed it on the margin of Cranberry Marsh, cunningly 
camouflaging its horn and eye-piece under an arbor of 
cattails and cress, as freely movable as its front. 

“It’s ready for business,” said Thistle to Needle, bow¬ 
ing servilely toward the machine. “We have been watch¬ 
ing Speckled Frog from the moment he was stung by the 
political hornet to the present. Our bumps of curiosity 
may be exceedingly large and a trifle impudent, but this 
enlargement of our powers of peeping is bound to furnish 
us a wonderful amount of entertainment.” 

Faithful to its purposes, that evening the machine, 
with fog for a screen, began a show of continuous pic¬ 
tures and to send out a stream of words, varying accord¬ 
ing to the actions and moods of those within and about 
the Marsh. 

The evening was being devoted to the rejoicings con¬ 
sequent on the return of Speckled Frog from his travels. 
The affair was in the hands of his admirers and depend¬ 
ents, to say nothing of those interested in his financial 
prosperity, and was free to all comers. There being no 
other entertainment scheduled for the evening, it drew an 
immense crowd. The occasion seemed to be the auspicious 
time to launch the intentions of Speckled Frog. 

Therefore, when the editor of the Daily Swampvine 
suddenly rose and called for silence, the older heads be¬ 
came quiet, but the billiwogs and the polliwigs tittered 
and continued to parade about as if to show their con¬ 
tempt for one whose voice was squeaky with age; but 
when the basso-profondo croak of Spotted Frog, a cousin 
of Speckled Frog, rent the Marsh, not even the wiggle 
of a fin could be heard. 

This gave the editor opportunity to deliver a flam¬ 
boyant eulogy of Speckled whom he denominated “the 
favorite son of Cove Pool.” In summing up the many 
beneficent virtues of the distinguished ranid, the editor, 


Not the King’s Will 


81 


after stating that never, in the history of the Pool, had 
one of its rana been elected to the National Froggery at 
Batrachia, implored every loyal Poolite to urge the nomi¬ 
nation and election of that “peer of leapers, the match¬ 
less contralto, the Honorable Speckled Frog!” as their 
representative. 

To say that the speech was received with enthusiasm 
would be to belittle the whole scene. So wild were the 
demonstrations of all within hearing of the speaker that 
the Marsh was whipped into a mountain of froth re¬ 
sembling whipped cream, and the watchers so shook with 
laughter that Canadian Thistle sent a cloud of down into 
the air, and Spanish Needle dropped great quantities of 
awns. 

“You see, Friend Spanish, the office of representative 
for ever so many years has been held by Hop Tripit, a 
common anoura and bachelor resident of a small pool 
north of Cranberry Marsh. Just why he had been chosen 
no one seemed to remember, unless it was because he had 
lost a leg in the Anurous War and an eye at the hands of 
Bean-Shooting Boy.” 

The fact was that not a few had the temerity to de¬ 
clare that Hop Tripit was the most sagacious member 
of the Batrachian Congress, and that his defeat would be 
a National disgrace. They challenged his enemies to point 
to a single official act which would betray insincerity, 
and pointed to the fact that, through honesty and candor, 
he had always secured ample appropriations for his dis¬ 
trict, so that his constituents had all the necessities and 
most of the luxuries of life; further, never had insects 
been so abundant, nor had there been such quantities of 
delicious spiders and slugs. 

In addition, it was shown that Hop Tripit, at the last 
session of the National Froggery, had secured a custom 
house at Cove Pool, thereby compelling the duties col¬ 
lected from the local importation of tadpole carriages, 
polliwig finery, mosquito pianos, basso profondo instru¬ 
ments, anuran parasols, and other articles dear to the 
frogine heart, to flow into the treasury at Cove Pool. 


82 


Not the King’s Wile 


Likewise, Hop Tripit had recommended Green Frog 
to Great Bull Frog for appointment as collector of cus¬ 
toms at Cove Pool. Great Bull Frog was intensely pleased 
with the information he received from Hop Tripit, be¬ 
cause he looked forward to that portion of Frogdom as 
the spot where he desired to spend his declining days. He 
felt that it, at least, would be a wise provision to gain the 
good opinion of Cove Pool; besides, Green Frog seemed 
to be the man for the place. 

Now, Green Frog, while pleased at being an important 
factor in the political circles of his pool, desired to be 
something more than a customs collector. It would be 
different if he could be the all-powerful collector at Frog- 
eye, the great port of entry into the United Pools of 
Frogdom; but Rana Palustris, a particular friend of 
Great Bull Frog, and an individual of undoubted ability 
and honesty, had a cinch on that position so long as he 
desired. So Green Frog gave a willing ear to the stories 
told by Speckled Frog regarding the United Pools of 
Frogdom, their geographical dimensions and their cos¬ 
mopolitan character, and these determined him to use the 
position as a stepping-stone to higher trusts. 

“Now, if you could do some great deed—something 
that would thrill Great Bull Frog to the marrow by its 
daring, so as to make it seem that being appointed col¬ 
lector here is insignificant when compared with your ser¬ 
vices, no telling what greater things you might get,” so 
said Speckled Frog to Green Frog, determined to have 
one of his lieutenants in the custom house when he had 
risen to power. “You see,” he continued very impres¬ 
sively, “Great Bull Frog began his career by defending, 
all alone, a shoal of tadpoles when attacked by a huge 
voracious anguilla rostrata. So faithfully did he perform 
the self-imposed duty that Hye Leaper, who was United 
Pools senator from Quaggy Bay and father of the shoal, 
brought Great Bull Frog to Batracliia and introduced 
him to the notice of Yellow Jumper, then the president 
of the United Pools of Frogdom.” 

From that memorable day the career of Great Bull 



Not the King’s Wile 


83 


Frog had been most spectacular; that fact Green Frog 
knew as he knew his own Pool. The whole of it seemed so 
wonderful it fired him with the desire to accomplish some 
notable act by which he would leap into fame, like Hora- 
tius at the bridge. But where was the Bridge for him? 
Had he been more sagacious and less foolishly thirsty for 
high position, he could have seen the bridge which oppor¬ 
tunity was offering him to walk over into higher ground. 
It was simply to display great ability in an inferior posi¬ 
tion and great place would demand his services for itself. 
So the interview left Green in a rather undecided condi¬ 
tion; but had he seen the satisfied grin which flitted over 
the face of Speckled Frog he might not have heaved the 
heavy sigh that he did. 

“Ah, he’s my providence!” croaked Speckled, puffing 
himself up to the fullest extent. 

Canadian Thistle and Spanish Needle watched Green 
Frog hurry home and tell his wife what Speckled had said. 
Somehow she seemed so pleased that she gave him an ex¬ 
tra hug and, fearing that their numerous polliwigs might 
hear what she said, she wispered: 

“I am so glad that Speckled Frog has given you so 
many friendly notices. I feel that if you will act upon his 
suggestions you will become famous, and I will get into 
society.” 

“That’s the frogine of it,” remarked Canadian and 
Spanish nooded in agreement. 

Shortly after the watchers were not surprised to see 
announced in The Daily Swampvine: 

“Yielding to a unanimous demand that I become a can¬ 
didate for a puddle in the National Froggery at Batra- 
chia, I place myself and my interests in the care of my 
friends. If elected, the humblest constituent shall receive 
as much consideration as the highest. 

“Speckled Frog.” 

Both of the watchers smiled derisively, and Spanish 
declared: 

“That means that no one will get any. And note you, 
Friend Canadian, ‘unanimous’ has come to mean from 


84 


Not the King’s Wiee 


none to a whole season’s catch of flies. It is no wonder 
that Great Bull Frog wants to change the spelling of 
Speckled’s family name to ‘Phraug.’ ” 

At that moment they saw Green Frog swimming across 
the pool. He was so intent on climbing higher in life 
that he croaked to himself: 

“I suppose I must do all in my power toward the elec¬ 
tion of Speckled Frog to the Froggery; then, with an in¬ 
troduction to Great Bull Frog perhaps some remarkable 
stunt that I can perform will turn up. Who knows but 
that I may swim in a Big Puddle in Frogdom, and my 
wife become a prime frogine in the social whirl round 
Great Bull Frog’s throne.” 

This was too much for the gravity of Spanish Needle. 
He laughed so heartily that he lost most of the awns he 
had gathered that day, and Thistle so shook with merri¬ 
ment that the air was white with down; and when Green 
Frog was far on his way, Thistle stopped laughing long 
enough to remark: 

“Green Frog must imagine that Great Bull Frog has 
forgotten Speckled Frog’s opposition to the regulation of 
canal rates in the United Pools, his position on the treaty 
between Frogdom and Tree Toads, and certain other in¬ 
defensible acts I need not mention.” 

Again Needle shook himself, losing the remainder of 
his awns. 

“The whole Frog Nation knows that Great Bull has a 
long memory,” he said. “Tomorrow, you know, is Con¬ 
vention Day.” 

The moto-phonograph had been thoroughly overhauled 
against the day of the district convention. It was to 
meet at ten in the Amphibiosian Temple at Cove Pool. 
Accordingly, that morning saw the watchers adjusting 
their contrivances from an early hour, as the attendance 
promised to be large. In fact, most of the delegates and 
many of the political gymnasts had arrived the day be¬ 
fore, so that there was much of the maneuvering of pre¬ 
convention hours to be observed. Much of this occurred 
at the Fenlough, the largest frogmere of Cove Pool; it 


Not the King’s Will 


85 


was taxed to fullest capacity by the croaking hordes that 
thronged its corridors and lobbies. 

At eight they saw Hop Tripit and Speckled Frog un¬ 
expectedly meet. When Hop got through telling Speckled 
how much was known of a certain unsavory episode at 
Batrachia, the names of the actors in which were not 
mentioned, Speckled wanted to withdraw from the con¬ 
vention ; but Green Frog and all his backers, being igno¬ 
rant of all things happening at Batrachia, would not con¬ 
sent. 

“Claim everything, my polli!” advised his uncle, Cricket 
Frog, a sportsrana who always attended the Annual 
Leap, and who was ever ready to risk a million slugs on 
a sure thing. “Claim everything; if you’re beaten, howl 
‘fraud.’ ” 

But few contests were shown; and these were so rapidly 
adjusted that the convention got down to business at 
once. This fortunate ending of what had promised to be 
the greatest amphibian croak that Frogdom had ever 
heard was due to a sleek salteintia named Boodell. He had 
been busy in the cloak rooms and lobbies of the Fenlough 
from early morning, and had brought his energies to the 
Amphibiosian chambers with the first arrival of delegates. 
It had developed that many of the delegates felt incom¬ 
petent to discharge their duties, but after Boodell had 
given each one a yellow-dust tablet, the needed mental 
balance was established. 

“Proceed with nominations!” commanded Puff Throat, 
bell-jumper of the convention, sending a stream of bub¬ 
bles to the top of the marsh. 

In a moment all was confusion. Fifty delegates were 
croaking, “Mr. Bell-Jumper!” but Puff Throat was ob¬ 
livious to all except Speckled Frog. Speckled was croak¬ 
ing for recognition. Instead of desiring to withdraw he 
was more anxious than ever for the nomination, for a 
nomination was equal to an election in a district so help¬ 
lessly Hopocratic. 

Puff Throat smiled at Speckled and wiggled for him to 
proceed. Speckled had promised, if elected, that he would 


86 


Not the King’s Wile 


use his influence to have the bell-jumper made sergeant- 
at-arms of the incoming Froggery. 

Speckled waited until order was restored. He felt that 
what he was about to divulge was worthy of sharp-set 
ears. 

“Mr. Bell-Jumper,” he began, measuring his words as 
befits a wise individual. “Mr. Bell-Jumper, before pro¬ 
ceeding to ballot on the two names before the convention 
there is a matter that has been lost sight of in the heat of 
the campaign. It is this: The Department of Entomology 
at Batrachia for years has been issuing, at the expense 
of the government, a large volume on the cultivation of 
edible insects for gratuitous distribution among the con¬ 
stituents of the members of the Froggery. I want to ask, 
how many copies have been sent to this district by the 
present representative?” 

A deep silence followed. Then a thousand throats 
croaked: “Nominate, nominate! We’re wasting time!” 

There was but one ballot. When the secretary an¬ 
nounced that Speckled Frog had two votes for every one 
of Hop Tripit’s, the waters of the Pool were lashed to 
a higher mass of froth than when Speckled held his joy 
over his home-coming. Amid the greatest pandemonium 
that ever reigned, the defeated candidate hopped away. 

The success of Speckled Frog gave strength to the 
Leapicans. They became suddenly active. They had been 
content with Hop Tripit, but Speckled was quite another 
frog. 

It had been so many years since a Leapican had swam 
in the National Puddle at Batrachia that he had died of 
old age and had been forgotten. With the amount of 
political ammunition which they possessed they felt that 
they could batter down any fortress erected by Speckled 
Frog; amid its thunders they expected to see him go 
into the up-stream current of salty oblivion. How they 
scented fricasseed spiders, escaloped flies, and gallinipper 
wine! To make sure that their hopes would be realized, 
they nominated Hop Plunger, a decidedly honest and up¬ 
right palustris of Cove Pool, to fight their battle against 


Not the King’s Will 


87 


Speckled Frog. Hop was energetic, and he was capable, 
but he was a decided Hopocrat. Previous to this, how¬ 
ever, the frogines of the Nation had acquired the right 
to the ballot. Now, Mrs. Hop Plunger, an amiable, un¬ 
tiring and eloquent frogine, determining to be the first 
frogine of Cove Pool, went into the fray, giving Hop 
rest neither day nor night lest her ambition come to 
naught. She marshalled the frogines in every quarter of 
the Marsh, pointing to the haughty, water-headed ten¬ 
dencies of Mrs. Speckled Frog, who was very choice as 
to whom she invited to her parlor socials. 

In the midst of these things the Pool was thrown into 
a state of great agitation by the arrival of Green Grass 
Frog, who came to deliver an address in the name of Great 
Bull Frog. 

Green Grass Frog told them of the many things that 
Great Bull Frog’s administration had done for Frogdom 
with the aid of such wise statesmen as they had turned 
down by machine-politics. He warned them of obstruc¬ 
tionists, and told them how the administration had been 
hampered in the building of the Haversian Canal between 
the mighty east and the superficial west ranalar Ponds by 
such nominations. That canal was to shorten the distance 
between Batrachia and Rana Anura more than ten thou¬ 
sand leaps. When the croaker had reached this point, he 
raised his voice: 

“Further, I have it hurled at me by such honorable 
persons as Canadian Thistle that the nominee of a cer¬ 
tain Boodelled convention is opposed to the regulation of 
inter-pool canal rates, to the waterways commission, and 
to the treaty between Frogdom and the countries of the 
fierce Anguilla Rostratae and the Warty Toads. My 
friends, had I a vote in your district, I would rather cast 
it for an honest but misguided Hopocrat than for a rene¬ 
gade Leapocrat whose only aim is self-aggrandizement, 
made possible by such questionable fellows as Boodell and 
his yellow-dust tablets.” 

Six weeks later, when the fog of conflict, hanging as a 
pall over the political world, had been pushed into in- 


88 


Not the King’s Will 


visibility by the hurricane of ballots, it was found that 
Speckled Frog, with all his ilk, had gone down into the 
political shadows, and that Great Bull Frog was insisting 
that Green Frog begin his work as Collector in the cus¬ 
tom house at Cove Pool. 

Amid the groans and croaks of those who had been 
overwhelmed by the tempest, there rose the chirp and 
giggle of the successful and enthusiastic supporters of 
Hop Plunger; while at the very edge of Cranberry Marsh 
was heard the voice of Spanish Needle addressing Cana¬ 
dian Thistle in tones of deepest satisfaction: 

“Of course, I sympathize with Green Frog, and I pity 
his vain wife. I am told that she spent most of her time 
posing before a mirror, so that her bows and her smiles 
should be of the most approved pattern. Great Bull Frog, 
in the goodness of his heart, may invite them to Batrachia 
and let her taste the sweets for which her vanity is ever 
calling.” 

“Too bad, Friend Needle, to waste so much valuable 
time and energy on a scramble, since anything like success 
was a mere gamble. Speckled Frog, on whom Green Frog 
depended, was a nauseous dose at the court of Great Bull 
Frog. Now, let us sell our machine!” 




Not the King’s Wile 


89 


DIED 

On Sunday evening, March 16th, of pneumonia, after 
only two days illness, CARROLL CELSUS PENNELL, 
only son of Dr. W. W. and Melvina M. Pennell, aged 10 
months and 16 days. 

’Neath the locust we have laid him, 

In his long and lasting sleep; 

Laid his form away forever 

In the grave. We can but weep. 

But the birds and gentle zephyrs, 

Celsie’s requiem will sing, 

And the locust will be moaning 
From the summer to the spring. 

And the birds will in their flitting, 

Dirges sing about his tomb; 

And the zephyrs will bewail him, 

And the flowers there will bloom. 

When we’re shut within the darkness, 

And a beam steals ’cross the room, 

Then our hearts are glad within us, 

For that beam dispels the gloom. 

Like the beam of sunshine came he, 

Smiles upon his lovely face, 

But it seemed a fleeting moment 
In which we him could embrace. 

Like a flower of sweet fragrance, 

Bloomed he in our lowly home, 

But too fair for earth’s embraces, 

And the Savior said, “Sweet, come, 


90 


Not the King’s Wiee 


For my Father hath a longing 
For the creatures of His love; 

Calls for thee to bloom forever, 

In His garden far above.” 

There no icy hand can fetter 
His beauteous unfolding, 

There no sinful frosts can hinder 
His angelic soul-life’s moulding. 

Let our thoughts be those of David— 

Though our cup is filled to brim; 

Though to us our babe ne’er wakens, 

We can waken unto him. 

Let the ties that have been severed, 

Those ennobling ties of love, 

Be united to that spirit, 

That has gone to God above. 

Let our lives be pure and simple, 

And confiding as a child, 

Let us look to that dear Savior, 

Who was lowly, and meek, and mild, 

He will lead us through green pastures, 

He will guide us evermore, 

Till He brings us to our darling, 

On the ever-lasting shore. 

—Holmes Co . Republican. 

Nashville, Ohio, March 29th, 1879. 


•MSB*-*- 



Not the King’s Will 


91 


GARFIELD 

Poor in gold and silver store, 

Rich became at Learning’s door; 

Poor in evil thought and deed, 

Rich in Nation’s place and meed; 

Scorned the traitor’s cruel war, 

Scorned the flag their minions bore; 

Led the loyal boys in blue, 

Loved the valiant and the true; 

Wise in legislative halls, 

Dumb to evil doer’s calls ; 

True to duty, true to State, 

A wise and strong Chief Magistrate; 

Honored for intrinsic worth, 

Not for holdings, not for birth; 

Pure in mind, of simple heart, 

Knew no demogogic art; 

Justice in him found no strife, 

God was honored in his life; 

Kind as father, husband, son, 

Made his home a happy one; 

Friend to rich and poor the same, 

When in righteous cause they came; 

To the rich and poor a foe, 

When they sought another’s woe; 

Martyred by a felon’s hand; 

Mourned by all within his land; 

Mourned by millions over sea ; 

To whom kings sang a threnody! 

Garfield sleeps his lasting sleep, 

Nations shall his memory keep ; 

Bright shall glow the ruddy flame, 

Bright shall shine his quenchless fame! 

October, 1881. —Cleveland Leader. 





92 


Not the King’s Will 


DEATH 

And Death, ample handed, came, 

Rejoicing sadly. 

I saw and sighed at his dole— 

Sepulcher, a shaft, forgotten of friends, 
Remembered of foes, offenses past— 

And, desponding, 

“With these,” I said, “With these, indeed, 
What spirit could miss sorrow? 

But even then, as “Choose” he said, 

My Brother came, 

And placed in my hand an equal share with Him. 


•MSB**- 


BABY’S TRAIN 

A comforting special, from Yawn-gaping rally, 

Meanders the course of the Sleepy-Eve Valley, 

Which nestles the banks of the Lullaby River, 

And winds to the realms of Lie-Down-And-Dream, 

When day and its cares have rolled on forever, 

To wait for the coming of Sunrising Beam. 

Dear pottering Mopus, its soothing old driver, 

Takes nothing for service; not even a stiver, 

For use of his trappings of silk, cotton and wool, 

Does ever he ask from the fondest of mothers; 

All know that his Sleepmans are safer than others, 

And all his compartments are healthily cool. 

It moves, with its tapers crepuscular burning, 

And sways with a comfort his charges concerning, 

And dulcetly carols its rest-giving theme: 

“The angels, Safe-Escort and Soft-Healing-Slumber, 
Attend thee through nights and to suns without number, 
Thy Mother’s dear baby for Lie-Down-And-Dream.” 



Not the King’s Will 


93 


AFTER 

After a morn of pain, 

After a noon of jest, 

After an eve of strain, 

After a weary quest, 

Sleep shall come! 

After the wear of toil, 

After the irk of calm, 

After a day of moil, 

After a song and psalm, 

Dreams shall come! 

After a gleam of hope, 

After the darkest hour, 

After a lonely grope, 

Craving its thrilling pow’r, 

Love shall come! 

After a time of sweep, 

After a life of love, 

After a night of sleep, 

Swift as the cooing dove 
Dav shall come! 

TWO FRIENDS 

O wrongful, weak, and lost to care, 

Why should I know you’ve fell so far 
While she, still earth-bound, mounts the air, 

Nor finds a single hindering star. 

Within you both my hopes did lie, 

But now the depths of sin and misery, 

To force and keep apart, do vie, 

Two souls that once were joined in common ecstasy. 

July, 1913. 


94 


Not the King’s Wile 


HOLINESS OF WAR 

War is God’s Alembic. Skilled 
Alchemists of right eterne 
From its wrack His glories build, 

From its depths His blessings churn. 

Who bears palms unblest brings war; 

Though his words be soft and fair, 
Heart of him and life abhor 
Jewels that the tranquil share. 

Hero-homes all ties bestow, 

None withheld and none grown cold ; 
They who stay and they who go 
Each his all for each spun-gold. 

He who serves his Flag serves God; 

Priestly rites may not be where 
Furrowed field and upturned sod 
Bear aloft the patr’ot’s pray’r. 

Who bears arms for Truth brings peace; 

Blood may flow on many fields; 

Yet his rights will find release 
As, predestined, Error yields. 

None so weak but that some task 
To his strength and skill is apt; 

None so dull but ’neath some mask 
He will find his duty wrapped. 

War is God’s Alembic. Skilled 
Alchemists of right eterne 
From its wrack His glories build, 

From its depths His blessings churn. 


•♦4SUM* 


Not the King’s Will 


95 


’COON HUNTER’S SONG 


A wukin’ in de co’nfiel’ 

Shuckin’ out de yeahs, 

An’ pilin’ up de co’n-yiel’ 

Fas’s hit appeahs, 

Think Ah heahs a-squealin’ 

Down among de timbah; 

Dars a big tail stealin’ 

Mighty fas’ an’ limbah! 

’Coon’s big an’ juicy, 

Co’n’s sweet an’ fine— 

Fotch ’im home to Lucy, 

Roas’ ’im wid de pine! 

Huntin’ go in ebenin’, 
Home ag’in de midnight, 
Sleep away till mohnin’. 
Dream, dream, dream! 

It’s at suppah, maybe, 

When de ohdors rise, 

From de meat an’ graby, 

Chahmin’ nose an’ eyes! 

What a time o’ grinnin’ 

At yo’r pa’dnehrs jokin’! 

What an houhr o’ winnin’ 

Praises sof’ly spoken! 

’Coon’s big an’ juicy, 

Co’n’s sweet an’ fine, 

Glad dey’re home wid Lucy, 
Roas’ed wid de pine! 

Eat ’im in de ebenin’, 
Dancin’ till de midnight, 
Sleepin’ till de mohnin’, 
Dream, dream, dream! 


96 


Not the King’s Will 


THE SENTINELS’ DREAM 

Far over the mountain the smoke rolled away, 

When hushed was the battle at the close of the day, 
And beautiful stars shone over the plain, 

Where mingled the wounded, the dying and slain; 
The soldiers’ hurrah and the bugles’ shrill blast 
Had summoned the warriors to resting at last. 


A sentinel weary, with slow measured tread— 

To crimsoned glory his comrades had led, 

And shouted “Hurrah ! the Boshes retreat!”— 

Paced backward and forward upon his lone beat. 

He paused but a moment to hear the soft breeze 
As whispering it came through the branches of trees; 
Reclined on his rifle—all still as the tomb, 

And not the least larum was heard from the gloom— 
The eyelids dropped shut; a drowsiness fell,— 

Unable the brain exhaustion to quell, 

And sleep, like sweet balm to a sorrowing soul, 

To him of its essence began to unroll. 

He dreamed of his home at the foot of the hill; 

And of a small cottage by the side of a rill, 

Where waited his coming a rosy-cheeked girl— 

She of the smiles and the golden-hued curl— 

’Twas fancy’s embrace that gave him a kiss, 

Renewing their troth in that moment of bliss, 

And—startled, the slumbering sentry awakes, 

The order of “Charge!” upon his ear breaks, 

The call of the bugle, the beating of drums, 

The shouting of men: “The enemy comes !” 


Unerring the bullet that came to the breast 
Of him, the lone sentry, whom fancy had blest. 





Not the King’s Will 


9T 


Rest, sentinel, sleep! Your watchings are o’er, 
The troopers’ loud shout will wake you no more, 
While dreaming of home—a rosy-cheeked girl— 
She of the smiles and the golden-hued curl. 
Beneath the green earth your form will be laid, 
Where many a brave heart to dust has decayed, 
While pulsating bosoms their memories keep, 
Rest, soldier-boy, rest! And sweet be your sleep. 


•MBSf+- 


LULLABY 

Draw the curtains round thy bed, 

Hide within its friendly screen, 

On its pillow rest thy head, 

There let Sleep attend serene. 

Though aweary as thou art, 

Bruised by thorns and clogs concealed, 
Highway path, or busy mart, 

Yet their pains to Sleep will yield. 

Heavy eyelids now let close, 

Banish fancy’s surging scenes; 

Let no future tasks oppose, 

Mindless be thy bright yestreens. 

Sleep and dream, O weary one, 

Smiles on smiles play o’er thy face; 

Let the balm of night outrun 
All the day’s exhausting chase. 

Morrow’s work and morrow’s press, 
Till the dawn, lie still and deep; 

Let this night thyself possess, 

Be restored, thou, by thy sleep! 



98 


Not the King’s Will 


THE EDITOR AND THE POET 


An Editor wise and a woman poetic 
Were viewing each other with sniffle and frown. 

He urged that all copy be written phonetic, 

And swore like a Lord, in language prophetic, 

That that was the surest of all roads to renown; 

But she, wayward creature, with words antithetic, 

And gestures complacent, thought oft energetic, 

Protested that language, like ladies, should drown 
Distortions and blotches in garments cosmetic, 

Refusing to pose in a dress apologetic, 

Thus giving to seemly its stateliest crown. 

What their auditors heard it is sad to relate 
The censoring pencil proceeded to quash; 

The monitor ordered that of the debate 
Those words unrefined should be hid by a dash; 

“That, madam, I’m sure.sham! 

I sit here to tell you, as a man of repute, 

That nothing so.flim-flam, 

Can ever pass muster.clam; 

But probably you,.dispute, 

And you may get busy for who. 

“Why, man,” said the poet in withering scorn, 

“Your sense of what’s right is a.dream ; 

Reminding a body of one.morn, 

Who hunts his saloon and.dram, 

And then, in his frenzy, the.the whole theme, 

So now I must hurry.boo . . oo.to Sam, 

And tell of the.boo. . . . 00 . . . .00 .big Brute!” 

This wearisome warfare of words differential 
Transuded the walls of the sanctum sanctorum, 

And poured to the streets in volume torrential, 

Disturbing the city’s refinement and peace 
Till all of the hosts of civility’s forum, 

















Not the King’s Wile 


99 


For reasons sufficient they deemed sapiential 
Decided the case in a way precedential— 

Informed them at once their fuss was pestilential, 
Hereafter their conduct must be more reverential, 

Not punting and rushing so rashly with social decorum. 




LITTLE BIRD 

Little bird, chirping bird, 

Flitting through the air, 

I do love a little maid 
That is very fair. 

“Yes, I know,” the warbler said. 

Little bird, chirping bird, 

Swinging on the vine, 

Does she love me, pretty one? 

Can I make her mine? 

“Yes, you can,” the warbler sang. 

Little maid, so winsome, fair, 

Eyes of deepest blue, 

Will vou listen for a time 
While I speak to you? 

“Yes, she will,” the warbler sang. 

I do love you, little maid, 

Can I make thee mine? 

Then the maiden sweetly said: 

“Yes, forever thine!” 

“Told you so,” the warbler said. 

—Fireside Companion , N. Y., 1870. 


100 


Not the King’s Will 


CHANGE 

We call it Death, that scene, 

Enacted once by every man, 

When pulse and breathing cease; 

When eyelids close and hide 
The vacant stare, as if to screen 
The visage harsh of Change. The nose 
Is pinched; the lips are still and blanched, 
And all the features lose themselves 
In inexpression. Warmth departs, 

And thrilling chillness creeps on, 

To rigid hold the one whose hates and loves 
Have fell into oblivion. 

Yon creeping, hairy thing, note well; 

’Tis now of life and vigor full 

And splendid presage of length of days. 

Yet, cometh soon a shift to it, 

And, with growing languor drags its way 
Unto the limit of its days. 

Then, winds it round in its cocoon 
And lieth down unto forgetfulness— 

A seemless end of such a trifle. 

But see! There issues from the silken tomb 
A wondrous thing of splendor. With wings 
Unfurled to catch the breeze, it sails 
To unknown haunts and mounts to heights 
Unseen, a being from its narrowness set free, 
Forever and forever more. 




Not the King’s Will 


101 


MOUNT ZION LODGE 


January 7, 1910, Mount Zion Lodge, No. 9, F. & A. M., at Mount 
Vernon, Ohio, celebiated its one hundredth anniversary, a fine program 
of addresses and music being given. Among those who participated 
were Rev. W. E. Hull, Chas. C. lams, Dr. H. W. Jones, L. Tate 
Cromley, John S. Alan and Past Grand Master William B. Mfilish. 
Reference was made to the difficulties and antagonisms which weie 
encountered by the charter members in establishing the Lodge. 


With eyes of hope amid their fears, 

Our forebears looked beyond their years 
To days that would untwist the skein 
Of tangled threads in stigma’s strain, 
And, in the loom of princely faith, 
Unmoved and blind to slander’s wraith, 
Anew would weave, in warmest mold, 

A web of love, a cloth of gold. 


From age to age, since Sinai’s Ten, 

With wondrous skill, the hands of men, 

To Mem’ry’s name, in chiseled bronze 
Or stone, have traced his rubicons, 

And dared the years’ unhindered might, 
With deadly spawn, to lay its blight 
Where he on high his columns reared, 

Till all his work had disappeared. 

Yet, Time’s rude lapse, and Error’s hand, 
And War’s grim force, in reprimand, 

Wore down his columns, granite, bronze, 
Symbolic types and record stones; 

But these, who wrote on slabs of flesh, 

Who wove their deeds in friendship’s mesh, 
In wisdom, strength and beauty reared 
A temple of the years revered—. 
Fraternal, constant, deep-ingrained, 
Which, ages hence, still unprofaned, 

A shrine will be for those whose flight 
From darkness leads into the light. 


March, 1910. 


Masonic Voice-Review. 


102 


Not the King’s Will 


OUR GIRLS 


Their brows are fair and free of ruffle, 
For there enthroned abides content; 

Their cheeks are as the lily’s petals, 

A tinge of rose with snow-drops blent. 

Their eyes are blue as heaven’s ether, 

Just sweetly frank and filled with light; 

With faces round as Luna’s fulness, 

As peaceful, gracious and as bright. 

One’s hair is long and brown and silken, 
And one’s is as the shining gold, 

Each head a mass of flowing fibrils 
Adown those necks of beauty’s mold. 

Those dimpled cheeks and lips of carmine, 
Those prattling tongues and azure eyes, 

Those budding forms so full of mischief, 
Make home a comfort and life a prize. 

May God protect, inspire and lead them 
As free from guile as is their youth; 

In tempered paths may their feet travel 
In quest of faith and love and truth. 





Our Girls 















Not the King’s Wile 


103 


THE FIRST CHRISTMAS 


When Heaven’s sweetest strain to man, 
Night-borne, abrupt, invoked the ear, 

While bleating flocks bewildered ran, 

The shepherds fell to earth in fear. 

Triumphant, sweet, the angels’ song 
The dawning’s air bore on its wings: 

“Let peace on earth to earth belong, 

Good will to men Christ’s advent brings. 

The Law is past, its reign’s fulfilled, 

By grace of God this Christmas morn— 
Through Bethlehem be all hearts thrilled, 
There Christ, Immanuel, is born!” 

The prostrate shepherds cry, “His star!” 

As flashed on Judah’s wintry night 
A startling brilliance, from afar, 

And poured on earth its mellow light. 

Then from the East the wise men trace 
Their anxious journey. “Where is He 
Whose Star we’ve seen? We fain would place 
Before him gifts, on bended knee.” 

Within that dim evangel dawn, 

The willing steps the hills convey 
To Bethlehem’s poor manger drawn, 

Where, swadling-clad, the Jesus lay. 

The Mother-Maid’s love-blinded eyes, 
Consumed with joy, still seeing, gazed, 


104 


Not the King’s Wile 


While shepherds dull and magi wise 

The Christ-Child, Lord and Saviour, praised. 

As circling waves once set, that morn, 

Enlarged, has spread from shore to shore 
Proclaiming friendship, heaven born, 

Christ’s kingdom now and evermore. 

Dec. 23, 1905. 

—Mount Vernon Republican-Nezvs. 




HANS STEIN TO HIS GRANDSON 

Vun leetle poy, vun yearlink olt, 

Vot crows shord hairs upon his het, 

Und amples roundt shust like a colt, 

Iss quide a horse, you bedder bet. 

Some say “how shordt his leks and feed”: 

Put dat’s all righd—dey reach der floor; 

Und ven he gries, mit voices sweed, 

Der neighpors zay: “Der lion’s roar !” 

Put ven ve dinks from agorns crow 
Der mighdy oak, on spreading plans, 

Vy, leetle poys should alvays know 
Dat from dem cooms der shendlemans! 




Not the King’s Will 


105 


THE GREATER ARMISTICE 


A World at war 
With all the world! 

Hell’s toreador 
His hatreds hurled 

Against mankind because a toad had died! 

Wolf-like, he snarled 
With fiend-like glee his rapine seethed; 

A leper gnarled, 

His deadly breathings he unsheathed, 

And dared the world resist its tide! 

The crumpling east, 

Though years hard pressed 
By blood-keen beast, 

Saw from the west 
An Eagle’s brood spread over sea! 

The Flag of Stars ! 

Three million vestal guns ! 

God’s avatars, 

Before whose wrath His mercy runs, 

With peace for Earth and liberty ! 

The Day of days 
Is born of years ! 

In its first rays 
The Cross appears. 

And in the rising sun’s bright beams, 

Athwart the sky, like burnished gold, 

An angel writes, in living streams: 

“Let Peace from Man no greed withhold!” 

—Republican News , November 11, 1921. 




106 


Not the King’s Will 


THE FLAG 

OF STRONG AMERICA 

Hard by the pit where Bondage toiled 

A lily white sprung strange and bloomed. 
She slipt it to her cell unsoiled 

To soothe the pain her plight foredoomed. 
Near to her shrine, and galling chain, 
Low-shelved unto her narrow bed, 

She made it ride a mimic main, 

A white-winged ship with wings full spread. 
So fresh it came into her lot, 

She welcome gave the air-sketched scenes 
That filled her cell and thronged her cot, 

From misty pasts and clear yestreens; 

For in its blooms great rubies burned, 

Like clustered bright celestial fires, 

And ’neath them glowed, birthrights interned, 
The sapphires of her ancient sires. 

Within this halo sweet she slept, 

And clanked her chain with restless roll— 
Her heart to heights unknown had leapt, 

And dared the vale exact its toll. 

Her flesh no more should bear the chain; 

Unfettered as the air she breathed, 

With God her trust, she dared to gain 
From Hazard all that right bequeathed. 

The lily fades; its stalk unbars 
A flying sheet of white and red, 

And hoists a sapphire field of stars 

That round her cell bright splendors spread. 
She waked and found unfettered wrists, 

She heard new songs announce the day, 

And Freedom’s flag shone through the mists— 


Not the King’s Will 


107 


The Flag of Strong America! 

As flashed that Star within whose beams 
Angelic hosts hosannas sang, 

And on the wings of morn’s bright gleams 
Love’s message down the ages rang, 

So blazed the flag for wrong’s redress, 

To liberty by right restrained, 

To life and home and happiness, 

Where, eagle-borne, it floats unstained. 

’Twas Mother’s love shone in its flash, 

’Twas Father’s faith, and hope, and brawn; 
’Twas Brother’s hand to break the lash, 

’Twas Sister’s tongue to voice the dawn! 

No vandal hand would dare to tear 
That emblem from its chastened sky, 

As, gleaming bright and hallowed there, 

It greets the free-world’s eye. 

To anger slow, to concord swift, 

The God of Hosts its counselor. 

’Twould rather lose to peace a gift 
Than wrongful gain a realm by war, 

Yet not to servile peace it blazed, 

Soft stupid moods, unknown to ire, 

But, roused for right, the world’s amazed— 
Columbia’s hills and vales are fire! 

aV 

tJv VF vw 7F 

Float on in majesty and power, 

Dread emblem of the people’s sway, 

Their shield, their scepter, field and bower, 

Thou Flag of Strong America! 

—Cincinnati Enquirer , June 24, 1917. 




108 


Not the King’s Wile 


BABY 

Sleeping and weeping, 

Crying and sighing, 

Sneezing and wheezing, 

Falling, squalling, and bawling, 

With never a rest, 

Except at breast; 

Then cooing, and wooing and spewing, 
Colicky, frolicky, 

Grinning and winning, 

With never once sinning; 

But keeps awake nights 
To see all the sights, 

And chandelier lights— 

All restfulness blights; 

Then snoozes away 
At dawn of the day ! 

Then how we tip-toe, 

Lest we waken the foe! 

But ’stead of quieting 
We set up a rioting, 

And snuffing and puffing and stuffing, 
And eating, entreating, dead-beating, 
And kissing and missing, 

With thousands of twists 
And tightly drawn fists, 

With rubbing his nose, 

Or banging his clothes, 

Or pulling his toes, 

Increasing his “Ohs” 

To a mountain of woes ! 

Then we soothe and we smooth, 

We bill and we chuck and we spoon 
The bald-headed Baboon: 



x - - v . w 

. 

%, y m. y 

•M , . *X , *<H ., 


* 


Baby 








Not the King’s Wile 


109 


“So ’boozed an’ p’itty an’ ’tweet, 

The solidest gold from its head to its feet! 
And did my ’ittie dollie 
Off the beddy fallyp 
Here’s some sugy-tugy, 

Oo p’itty wopsy-popsy!” 

Then whimper, whimp, whim, 

To sobbing, sobby, sob, 

Sober! 

Then slob, slobber, slobbest, 

Marks the hour of jubilee. 

Smiles, simpers, smirks and grins, 

Giggles, titters, chuckles, crows, 

Democritus the Abderite, 

Nevermore a Heraclite; 

A very Sir Lucius O’Trigger, 

Or Chronohotonthologos, 

With some great big sniggers, 

Much larger than a nigger’s, 

The protentate brawler, 

The synoptic Wat Tyler, 

Then quiets down, 

With many a frown; 

And we that were sad 
Are honestly glad! 

SERENITY 

Blow, Winds ! And Storms, howl! 

And, Torrents, rush in glee! 

While ’neath their threatening cowl 
The sun conceals his sympathy. 

Waters, drip! and, Shadows, creep! 

And Chill, creep into the flood! 

None of this can make us weep— 

The warmth of Trust keeps warm the blood. 



110 


Not the King’s Will 


OUR LITTLE GIRL 

Golden hair 
In ringlets cluster 
Upon her head 
With brilliant lustre. 

Violet eyes 

Like Heaven’s awning, 

Shine like dew 
On Summer’s morning. 

Rose-like cheeks, 

With dimples in them 
Glow all day, 

And kisses win them. 

Lips that smile 
Like early flowers 

When they’re touched 
By Spring’s warm showers. 

Prattling tongue 
From morn till even, 

Seems to us 
A gift from Heaven. 

March, 1879. 

SING-SING!- 

Sing a song of cheerfulness, 

Sing it with a shout; 

Hand it to the doleful ones 
That are you about! 

Often days seem dreary, 

Often days there is no sun; 

Sing the louder, make it ring; 

Lift the lid and sing, sing, sing! 


Not the King’s Wile 


111 


THE RAIN 

Patter, patter, plash and dash, 

Against the window pane and sash 
September rains tattoo and crash, 

While the clouds are hanging low, 

And the sun has hid his glow 
Half in mockery, I trow, 

As the drops fall fast and slow. 

Patter, patter, tip-a-tap, 

Earth glad opens up her lap 
To the rain’s dear girlish slap, 

While the trees are bending o’er, 

Moaning ’neath the loving pour, 

As the breezes come and go! 

September, 1883. 




FAITH 

It reaches up and takes hold 

On the everlasting God 

With a grasp that takes no denial, 

Thus uniting man to his Creator; 

It makes the heart obedient to His will 
With a pleasure undescribable. 

This mighty chain, forged by Faith, 

Like the electric current that binds 

The continents, vibrates with holy thoughts 

And desires—pulsations that reach 

The innermost heaven, and cause 

The love of the Father to pour out responsive, 

And what man desired exists. 


1892. 



112 


Not the King’s Will 


WEAVING THE WEB 

The day’s affairs spin kindred threads 
From distaffed aims that men embrace, 

And skeins them for the weaver’s sleds 
That hasting fly life’s shuttle-race. 

For Life’s a Loom to interlace 
The threads of days, neglectful spun, 

Into a web which grows apace 
Till death proclaims its work is done. 

The heddled warp plays up and down, 

Its shuttled weft hastes to and fro, 

In weaving white, and red, and brown, 

A cloth of joy, or web of woe. 

So, angled, curved or zigzag lined, 

With restless shift as rides the sea, 

s and years combined 
And lo! the tale of destiny: 

Of flotsam-jetsam, deed and word, 

Hard-earned success, or ill-starred race, 

The harnessed threads, as fabrics shirred, 

In bold relief its records trace. 

If, as the web escapes the sleave, 

A rose blooms sweet, appears a thorn— 

A clouded day grown bright at eve, 

A summer night clay-cold at morn— 

What then? The distaff gave the causal thread 
The shuttle’s play contained no guile, 


The threads of day 




Not the King’s Will 


113 


The cloth came forth as days now dead— 
And words and deeds improve, defile. 

This cloth may mark a pageant great, 

Or vivid actions, clean or foul— 

Brigades of weeks may walk in state, 
Platoons of months false-hearted prowl— 

Yet, ’tis the breathings of a soul, 

It’s best amid uplifting strokes, 
Perchance the scars of evil’s toll, 

That which from such the most evokes. 


•♦48RM- 

WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM 

“There’s nothing in a name;” 

A maxim often quoted 
From one well known to fame 
As to his lyre devoted; 

The rose might be the same 
By other name denoted ; 

Its fragrance might forever claim 
To be the sweetest floated. 

But then, friend Code, the rose, 

Whose leaves the winds have tossed 
Beneath the ages snows, 

To memory is lost; 

While in our hearts there glows— 

A meaning sweeter given— 

The dearest names, and those 
Are Mother, Home and Heaven. 

1882. 






114 


Not the King’s Will 


THE SPECTACLE MAN 

There’s a spectacle market on Pliable Street, 

And the keeper is keen and anxious to please 

With his wares that are bright and his ways that are 
sweet, 

Though he’s old as the hills and who talks with a wheeze. 

It is said that it hastily curdled the blood 

Of old Noah and clan, as they came to disbark, 

When they saw that this keeper had cheated the flood, 
And was waiting to barter with those from the Ark. 

He had founded his market on Pliable Street— 

The first thoroughfare settled, as you may suppose— 

And for centuries there, has continued to greet 
The great deluge of buyers that into it flows. 

For, ’tis said, in some way, that his glasses are queer, 
And a wonder of marvels will work in a flash; 

With them, people and things, as you wish, will appear, 
With a sureness that hinders a slip or a clash. 

Not for silver or gold, nor for notes of demand, 

Nor for covenant bonds, does this merchantman sell 

His long strange wondrous spectacles, pleasingly planned, 
That for magic results all the others excel. 

And, he never advises; you choose what you buy 

Of his wares; whether clear, red, green, yellow or blue; 

Neither yet of the style does he ever imply— 

But he simply concedes the whole matter to you! 

In completing a purchase you give of your grain, 

Of your spirit and soul, of your ardor and zeal, 




Not the King’s Will 


115 


To a measure sufficient your wants to obtain— 

For the principal point is your pleasure and weal. 

But this trickster is mindful that people will wear 
Ev’ry shade of the colors that his skill can supply; 

That the message of love which a crystal may bear 
He can utterly steal and replace with a lie. 

There are legends of barters in every clime, 

That this merchantman made, undesigned, in the past; 

How a happiness fell, or a horrible crime, 

’Neath the glamour and charm that his spectacles cast. 

And we go to this market and know not we go; 

We are wearing his lenses and are not aware; 

We’ve a heart that’s a friend and an eye that’s a foe, 
We’ve a soul that’s the truth and a bent that’s a snare! 

We forget that the world and its people will seem, 

And accord to the inner man’s unction and view; 

We’re withholding the handshake of friendly esteem, 

And we smite with the cavil which selfishness drew. 

This old merchantman feasts on our pleasures and joys, 
And he dines on our pains, as he waxes in might; 

While he gloats o’er the tidbits that ill-nature convoys, 
All his patrons cringe round at his manners polite. 

When it seems that the world has grown yellow with age, 
And its people are jaundiced, motheaten and mean; 

When the fields fail to charm or the woods to engage, 

Or a friendship grows feeble and frigidly mean; 

When the waters are turbid, and faded the rose, 

And when bleared is the gem of a fellowship rare, 

’Tis the cynic’s buff lens that has straddled the nose, 

Or ’tis envy’s virescence that moons with its stare. 


I 


116 Not the King’s Wile 

Are we thirsting for blood and for trouble and shame? 
We have chosen the crimson, and all of the world 

Is immersed in its ruddle, its scarlet and flame, 

With its flags of defiance and tussle unfurled. 

Are we weary and sad with the floodgate of tears 
Op’ning widely and oft to the fountain of woe? 

’Tis the shopman’s damned blue that our vision besmears, 
For the world never loses its beauty and glow. 

Is’t our solace, our hope, and our sprightly good cheer, 
That have carried our sail over many a sea— 

Is’t some pity, some grace, or a loving word dear, 

That at once might have softened a fiend with its plea, 

That we take to this market and seek an exchange 
For the lenses that temper has bade us employ? 

And the spectacles offered are sure to estrange, 

For their liturgy’s dumb to the peace-maker’s joy. 

Should the eyes that the years have kept open and clear 
Feed a mote till it mars their wonderful light, 

Why distortion’s scotomas their fields will ensmear, 

So that actions with doubtings their fancies indict. 

’Tis the red of ill-will with its maladroit code, 

’Tis the orange of shuffle that perfidy woo’d, 

’Tis the yellow of scorn and its chides to corrode, 

’Tis the green of suspicion, the lenses’ foul brood, 

Makes a neighbor’s success with dishonor seem rife, 

In the force of whose labors our efforts must drown— 

Sweeps off all that is sweet and ennobling in life, 

While extorting the jewels that were cut for its crown! 


•♦48Sf+- 


Not the King’s Will 


117 


THE CAPTAIN’S STORY 

There came to my ship one morning in May 
Just after the harbor we safely had gained, 

A gentle young lassie, in garments of gray, 

With look of importance so artlessly feigned. 

In all of its lines was angelic the face; 

The eyes that looked at us were truthful and blue; 

Her body was moulded in beauty’s own grace— 

She captured the bunch of my sea-worn crew. 

Her footsteps were blithe as she walked o’er the plank, 
A smile on her face quite enchanting, you see; 

While quickly her eyes, so confidingly frank, 

Ranged searchingly round in expectancy. 

She lingered awhile in a vague sort of way 
As if inquiry she wanted to make; 

I walked o’er to her and said, “Little girl, pray, 

Your business make known for time is at stake.” 

“Is papa on board of your vessel, kind sir?” 

Her quivering lips made an answer to me. 

“My mamma said so, for his letter to her 

Said in the Fair Queen he’d come over the sea.” 

“Your name, little girl, your name I must know 
To answer your question both quickly and true.” 

“ ’Tis Bessie Devore and my papa’s was Joe— 

The darlingest papa that anyone knew.” 

“Before I will answer you with no or with yes, 

Will you first your family fortunes relate?” 

The azure eyes shone with cheeks rosiness : 

“Yes, sir, that I will, if you’ll answer me straight. 

My mamma is sick, and cries all the day 

Since Bennie was buried away out of our sight 




118 


Not the King’s Will 


The Saturday after he was hurt by the dray, 

While watching for papa to come ere the night. 

“He dreamed of our papa all night long before, 

And mamma was waked by his murmurings glad; 

He sighed in his dreams, ‘He went out of the door,’ 
And mamma was sure that the omen was bad. 

When injured they carried him home in his pain, 

And tears all unbidden ran over his cheek; 

Yet never a word did he ever complain, 

But bore his misfortune so bravely and meek. 

“So, gently they laid him upon his own bed, 

And mamma and me were o’erwhelmed with our grief 

The doctor that came in at once shook his head, 

And said that ere long death would give him relief. 

Poor Bennie got drowsy; a fever had come 

And flushed his pale face with its hatefulest hue; 

He started and cried, ‘My papa’s come home! 

There mamma, dear ma, he’s now kissing you! ’ 

“ ‘Come, papa, your Bennie has waited all day 

For presents you said you’d bring over the sea— 

What beautiful wings have the children that play 
Around you, dear papa, and Grade and me! ’ 

So, raving of papa, and angels and Grace, 

(My only dear sister that died long ago,) 

We watched him till death put a smile on his face— 
But please,'Mister Captain, O please let me know, 

“Did papa come over the sea in your ship, 

And is he not hiding behind your big crew? 

There thinking he surely will give me the slip, 

Slip home to my mamma ere so I can do ?” 

“No, no, little one, bitter woe is for thee, 

And sorrowful tidings from over the deep: 

Your father’s dear body lies under the sea, 

Enclosed in its sheet in his dreamless asleep.” 


Not the King’s Will 


119 


She bitterly sobbed and the crew gathered near; 

We comforted her in a rough sailor’s way; 

No eyes were there but had shed a hot tear; 

No heart but had bled with a sorrow one day. 

We gave of our gold and our silver a store, 

Our sympathies rested upon that drooped head, 

For each had a child at his own home door; 

We whispered each other “Sometime I’ll be dead!” 

No gifts that we gave that morning in May, 

No sympathy offered with hearty good will, 

That orphan’s deep woe could conjure away, 

Nor papa’s own place at the hearth-stone fill. 

1882 —Holmes County Republican. 




DELIVERANCE 

Out of the darkness, into the light; 

Out of the wrongful, into the right; 

Out of the weakness, into the strong, 

Out of the grumble, into the song, 

O Spirit of Christ deliver! 

Set free of the spiteful, borne from the rubble, 
Unloosed from the scoffing, gleaned from the stubble, 
And into the splendor, and into the pleasure, 

And into Thy goodness, surpassing all treasure, 

O Spirit Divine, forever! 


•♦4 


120 


Not the King’s Wile 


HIS MOTHER’S FLAG 


Within the window sash it hangs, 

The modest flag she calls her own— 

A holy crown, the gift of pain, 

The flesh of her, her blood and bone. 

Its silv’ry star, in hallowed train, 

Recalls the hopes her soul possessed 
When she was young and strong and blithe 
Her babe at play upon her breast. 

His smiling face and cooing voice 
Intoned to her a future flame, 

That, in its shaping heat, should burn 
On glory’s scroll his well-earned fame. 

How near that dream its fruitage seemed, 
When boyhood’s years and tasks were done, 
And honors, like some brightness, bent 
Their pencilled rays upon her son! 

Ecstatic thought in grandeur traced 
The winding paths of excellence; 

And, in the days of coming years, 

His destined rise to eminence. 

But yet, as incense rising high, 

From altars of ancestral fires, 

Deep love of fatherland she laid 
Against the choice of her desires, 

Dropped as a bolt from cloudless heights, 
Bellona’s shafts were sent to mar 
The placid paths set for his feet— 

The sea, the earth, the sky, at war! 
Imperilled, floats his starry flag; 

Though dauntless foemen round it rise, 



His Mother's Fla 








Not the King’s Will 


121 


His answering cry comes swift, and she 

Sent laughter with her tear-dimmed eyes. 

So, on her flag she loves to gaze; 

It signifies so much to her 

Since God is good and government 
In taking cannot justly err. 

And while before her thoughtful view, 

Great deeds and acts their scenes unfold, 

Discerns she not her silv’ry star 

Has changed its face to shining gold. 

If mid the scars of No Man’s Land 
He shared its dangers, one by one; 

If in the heart of France he wrote 
The valiant memoirs of her son; 

If his young blood on Flanders field 
Vies with the poppies’ scarlet glow; 

If finds his clay its resting-place 
Amid its heroes, row on row, 

Her banner’s field may fade as day, 

The night of silence cloud her home, 

But Heaven’s peace and her dear Star 
Shine from the depths of its clear dome. 

Aflame for ay on God’s bright hills, 

Unsheathed, aloft, waves his brief sword; 

For they who seize its hilt, march on 
To vanquish all that he abhorr’d. 

November 4, 1918. — Republican-News. 




122 


Not the King’s Will 


CHRISTMAS 

A solemn night; 

A star’s soft light, 

A mother’s groan, 

An infant’s moan, 

And then the angel’s shout of of joy 
On Judah’s calm air ringing, 

At birth of that pure mother’s boy, 

To wrong-racked nations bringing 
His peace and love. 

That night of glory, 

And wondrous story, 

Brought to earth, 

Through human birth, 

The King, the Counsellor and Lord; 

And earth gave not a place to rest 
To One whom shepherds grave adored — 
A narrow manger’s humble guest— 
On bended knees. 

Thou Bethlehem! 

A diadem, 

From that lone stall 
On thee did fall! 

The song that rent the air that night 
Is ringing yet from shore to shore; 
The star that shed a silver light, 

Its lustre grows forever more. 

As ages pass. 

Thou lowly One, 

Thou David’s son, 

Thou babe of Love, 


Not the King’s Will 


123 


Sent from above, 

Thou Prince of Peace forevermore! 

We with the shepherds here would fall 
And with the angel throng adore, 

And crown thee King and Lord of all, 

Our great High Priest! 

Cincinnati, 1882. —Christian Standard. 


PEACHES 

In Memoriam. 

The rogueish face, the sunny smile, 

We loved to meet and greet and bless; 

Those friendly words, so free from guile, 

That seemed to all a love’s caress; 

That cheery voice, upon whose note 
Was borne the music of the heart within 
The modest breast, sent joy afloat 
To all that pleasing circle in; 

That fragrant rose, that nectared bloom. 

That lavishly was wont to spread 
On every hand it’s rare perfume, 

Forbidding care therein to tread; 

We’ll meet nor see nor hear again 
On earth; the tenement of blood 
Where life evolved could not retain 
The one for whom all Heav’n had sued! 

“Suffer to come the little ones,” 

The Savior dear himself hath said; 

So yet we hear those gentle tones; 

“Of such is Heaven’s kingdom made.” 

December 14, 1895. 



124 


Not the King’s Will 


HOME 

Where live we is not always Home! 
Though stately walls may us inclose, 
Though dainties there, profuse are found, 
Though riches there, immense, repose, 
Though honors great make us renowned, 
Though sung as heroes there we are, 

Or naught as kings our reign can mar, 
Yet ’tis not always home! 

Where love dwells is always home! 
Though low the roof that girts us in, 
Though scanty be the daily fare, 

Though Poverty’s our nearest kin, 

And shunned by Fame’s uprising stair, 
Nor comes to us the great man’s day, 

Yet wear we crowns that worlds obey, 
Love’s crown that always makes a home 




OVER THE WAY 

Over the way, just over the way, 

Sunset and twilight, arbor and bliss; 
Flowers perfume it, pleasures illume it, 
Zephyrs surround, comforts abound, 
Jennie’s sweet bower, close of the day, 
When I unskillful must pilfer a kiss. 

Over the way, just over the way, 
Laughter and frolic, altar and joy ; 
Songsters endear it, smilings upcheer it, 
Whispers are heard, blessings conferred, 
Cupid’s keen arrows at matinee, 

Love sits enthroned, silent and coy. 


Not the King’s Will 


125 


DEPRAVITY 

If you see a packhorse in the thills, 

’Neath a goad, 

Pulling with the pull that kills, 

Swell his load! 

He could trot with half his weight, 

He can race with half his freight, 

He would prick his ears and neigh, 

He might some virtue new display, 

Load him down! 

If you see a fellow in the ditch, 

Just a yard, 

When his plans have struck a hitch, 

Pelt him hard! 

He could rise to be a man, 

He can learn to better scan, 

He would gain a fair renown, 

He might fly to heights unknown; 

Keep him down! 

March, 1906. —Masonic Voice-Review. 


AN INSCRIPTION 

On library desk I found a small book, 

Not prettily bound nor brazened with gold— 
A volume on flowers in verse and in prose, 

A volume well-thumbed, and faded and old, 
Its fly leaf was inscribed in a delicate hand, 
Nor yet was it written with the penman’s art; 
“To Charlie, my boy, from his own mamma, 
May God ever keep sin out of his heart!” 


126 


Not the King’s Will 


IF YOU WERE ME 

If you were me and I were you, 

Not saying where we’d be, 

There is a fact I’d have you know, 

A fancy you should see. 

If you were me and I were you, 

At noon or shading eve, 

There is a bit you’d answer me, 

An ecstasy we’d weave. 

If you were me and I were you, 

Why longer words delay, 

You’d blush as only girls can blush 
And then be on our way. 

SHE 

If you were me and I were you 

A woman weak at once made strong, 
I’d quickly trot down life’s big road 
But you would be along. 


•♦♦US**- 


FRUITION 


Thus shall the sea know of the field, 

And yet learn of the mountain’s height, 
When babbling river mouths shall yield 
The message that their fountains write. 

White Fear, dumb mountain of the breast, 
Scant Faith, the fields of wild winds free, 
Your streams, your weakest cry, request, 
Can bear as ships unto the sea! 



If You Were Me 











































Not the King’s Will 


127 


THE KNOX MEMORIAL 

In furtherance of the proposition to erect at public cost a building 
in memory of the Knox County, Ohio, boys who participated in the 
World War. 


Raise here aloft a stately pile, 

Fit tribute to the nobly brave, 

Who, to the cause which Huns revile, 

Their bubbling wealth of valor gave. 

The Starry Flag, whose Eagle shed 
Its good will far o’er human weal, 

As God’s own hand in warning spread, 

Its scepter waved above its steel. 

And there beneath its astral folds, 

The sanctity of home to keep, 

They did the deeds which Hist’ry holds— 

The boys who live and they that sleep! 

The mite that thanks and mem’ry crave 
Is dross compared to the great flood 
Of love and valor which they gave, 

When off’ring us their youthful blood. 

The sons of Knox are valiant sons, 

Own brothers of the World’s War-heart, 

Who willing dared the rage of guns, 

And death before dishonor court. 

Go, build it high and build it broad, 

All measured by the deeds they’ve done; 

The world must know our boys have trod 
The glory-road which Freedom won. 

Ay, build it strong, enduring strong, 

Strong as the hearts that waged a war, 

And won for Freedom, with a song, 

The priceless gifts her trophies are! 

November 3, 1919. 

—Mount Vernon, Ohio, Republican-News. 


128 


Not the King’s Will 


THE BABY 

His Rights and Expectations 
(A short but not unusual autobiography.) 

A paper delivered to the Ohio State Pediatric Society 

at Dayton, June, 1903. 

I am a baby. Without any desire on my part, I was 
ushered into human existence. During my voyage 
to ordinary mundane consciousness I was subjected 
to severe pressure applied laterally and longitudinally, 
by which force I was propelled, twisted and rotated until 
I was received by a gruff gentleman. This gentleman 
looked me over and pronounced me all right, after which 
he wrapped me in a scratchy blanket and laid me on a 
cushion in an old rocker near the stove where one side of 
me roasted while the other froze. Of course I protested 
as loudly as I could, because the blanket stung me, and 
I was nearly frightened to death by having the hired girl 
come within an ace of mistaking me for the aforesaid 
cushion. 

Had I been consulted, after passing through such an 
ordeal and being ushered into a radically different life, 
I would have chosen a soft cloth wrapped around my body 
first, and then the blanket, previously warmed; for, you 
see, my skin was sensitive, and I was susceptible to tem¬ 
perature; so I formed a poor opinion of the habit of using 
a chair for a bed for new babies. 

I heard the gruff gentleman complimenting mother 
about the fortitude which she had displayed; but she very 
solicitously inquired about my welfare and he assured her 
that he would be careful regarding me, and that she should 
give herself no uneasiness. 

Imagine my horror, after such assurances, when he 


Not the King’s Wile 


129 


ordered the nurse to wash me with soap and water by 
means of a rag. The room in which this outrage was com¬ 
mitted had a temperature of about 65 degrees above zero. 
I call it an outrage because never before in all my being 
had I undertaken bathing exercises except where the tem¬ 
perature was 100 degrees, and all the blood, nutriment and 
other necessaries were of the same warmth. But now, when 
I had to breathe for myself, and when my lungs were just 
newly expanded to admit oxygen to the dark blood that 
came to them from the right ventricle to deprive it of 
noxious qualities, the touch of water in that room made 
me shiver. The unpleasant sensation of soap and water 
was intensified by the fact that my skin was bare of per¬ 
fected epithelium because of my prolonged swim from 
Point Conception to the Island of Birth. Although I 
again protested with all my might by lustily raising my 
voice (and this protest was my salvation), yet he ordered 
the nurse to wash on. My chin quivered with resentment 
and distress, and my fingers and toes became blue with 
cold; no one paid the slightest attention to my wishes. I 
had expected to have a bath of clean lard or oil to free 
my integument of all intra-uterine deposits and protect 
its tender and susceptible state from the inclemencies of the 
room. Besides, when this kind of bath was completed I 
would be clean, and the blood that would be returned from 
my legs and arms would be warm and would have pre¬ 
vented the chill which I had. But the nurse washed and 
rubbed. Soap and water were unsuited to the work ex¬ 
pected of them; in the folds of my skin there remained 
masses of cheesy varnish, while elevated portions were, 
here and there, deprived of their fragile epithelial pro¬ 
tection. 

In after days I had a troublesome coryza as a result 
of my cool bath, and a tormenting itching of the skin from 
the scouring I had received. 

Of course I fretted because of my uncomfortable state. 
But day after day my baths were administered, and I 
became inured to them, but it was many days before all 
the caseous material was removed from my elbows, arm- 


130 


Not the King’s Will 


pits, groins and popliteal spaces; not until some of the 
cheesy deposit had fermented and, with the rubbing, 
caused what the gruff gentleman called eczema, and the 
nurse had to pour talcum and other powders on. The 
itching which this eczema occasioned was so intolerable 
that I spent hours in crying when it was my right to be 
at rest. Then I was dosed with catnip, peppermint, 
paregoric and soothing syrup to check my complainings, 
and made to swallow various foods because I was imagined 
to be hungry when I was vexed and harrassed. Was it 
any wonder that I puzzled my brain with the inquiry: 
“Do all babies, born free and equal, have their rights and 
expectations wrested from them because they cannot make 
themselves understood?” 

By pursuing this course toward me my digestion be¬ 
came impaired and my bowels constipated; my days were 
painful and my nights sleepless. In addition, and con¬ 
trary to my anticipations, the nurse failed to keep the 
umbilical region clean and my nose was saluted with con¬ 
tinuous foul odors. She compelled me to lie for hours 
with soiled and soppy napkins, and failed to administer 
a sip of water now and then. Of course, I knew that it 
was my right to have these matters different. Had I 
been the Creator, the first faculty I would have given a 
baby would have been speech, and the first idea in a nurse 
would be to do as she would want to be done by. 

Well, after my digestion was impaired and my bowels 
constipated, I was given castor oil, castoria and other 
laxatives, when I was wishing that the cause of my woes 
could be removed, as one would reasonably expect, and 
then their effects would manage themselves. 

To add to my discomfort, my mother’s health did not 
rise to the exigency demanded. The consequence was 
that while her milk was enough in quantity, it was sadly 
lacking in quality, and given to me at irregular intervals 
when I had the right to expect regular meals. Then, I 
was allowed to nurse nights when I expected to be com¬ 
pelled to sleep. The result was an increase in my consti¬ 
pation with formation of curds, vomiting, high fever, colic 


Not the King’s Will 


131 


and a symptomatic or constipation-diarrhoea, the dis¬ 
charges being foul smelling. Instead of changing my diet 
and clearing the intestines as I very loudly demanded, I 
was given an opiate which at once relieved my pain and 
stopped the diarrhoea, but it also sent the thermometer 
higher, and I became delirious. Somehow, nature was 
kinder than my attendants; it caused my stomach to be¬ 
come so rebellious that it rejected everything that was 
poured into me, medicines and all, and my bowels disposed 
of their irritating contents and their toxic products. My 
temperature became normal, but that avoidable spell of 
sickness left me weak and pale, and perhaps more sus¬ 
ceptible to intestinal disturbances than before. 

Mother’s health improving, I was kept at the breast 
and had what my grandmother calls baby-brashes, but I 
know them to be brashes that no baby has a right to 
have unless his expectations of healthful food and care 
are unfulfilled. 

With returning health, my mother’s milk improved in 
quality and ease of digestion. My skin cleared up, my 
sleep was peaceful and I began to thrive. The callers 
wanted to take me in their arms, pinch my cheeks and 
chuck me under the chin while they made remarks about 
my appearance and applied their questionable mouths to 
mine. These attentions I resented, as any right-minded 
baby should, and they called me “strange” and timid. 
For my part, I think the legislature should enact a law 
declaring such acts assault and battery; teach these peo¬ 
ple to take one of their size, and who can choose one’s 
embraces. 

I did not have a rapid return to health after my mother 
got better. There were days when she over-exerted her¬ 
self, when her tasks sapped her strength; this usually left 
me a small amount of milk of inferior quality, resulting 
in a bad feeling on my part. On the other hand, normal 
exercise and labor provided me with the best of nutriment 
—so much so that I strongly suspect that if my mother 
had led a dawdling, sedentary life, her milk would have 
been as poor in quality as when she over-worked. Later 



132 


Not the King’s Will 


on, menstruation returned; with each monthly discharge 
her milk was distasteful and of difficult digestion; but, 
after the period, the milk became normal. Yet, I ex¬ 
pected her to provide me with different nutriment; but 
she failed to see the connection between my condition and 
hers until I had three or four recurrences. Soon after, I 
was weaned and given a bottle of cow’s milk, and I did 
very well until the bottle and its hose became infected 
with sour milk and my troubles were renewed; but by this 
time my mother had taken the hint that most all the 
avoidable diseases of infancy arise from unsuitable foods, 
and that the first thing to do is to clear the bowels and 
administer antiseptics; so, as a bottle-fed baby, I did 
not remain sick very long, and had no recurrences after 
she fed me wholesome, sterile food. She found, also, that 
the evils of dentition are reduced to almost nothing, and 
that avoidable diseases are quite manageable. Yet, after 
I began to creep, she recognized another right peculiarly 
the baby’s: To keep the floor clear of all hurtful and 
dangerous articles, especially those I could get into my 
mouth; for, once I sadly frightened her by getting a pin 
into it, and, at another time, she was worse alarmed by 
my being choked by a paper-wad that I found and ap¬ 
propriated. 

In conclusion, I believe it would be to the interests of 
babyhood for us to form an association, the object of 
which will be to promulgate and enforce our rights and 
expectations in order that our lives may be lengthened 
and our days made happier. 




Not the King’s Wile 


133 


DISCUSSION 


By Darlington J. Snyder, A.M., M.D. 

Columbus, Ohio 


Mr. President and Gentlemen of the Society: The very 
unique manner in which Dr. Pennell has presented the 
“Rights and Expectations of the Baby” should certainly 
elicit the hearty approbation, the meritorious encomiums 
of this society. 

Neither the wisdom nor the sagacity of the medical pro¬ 
fession has even been able to foresee, much less calculate, 
the enormity of the ills to which humanity is heir, through 
the tyrannical proscriptions, irrational disregard and, 
sometimes, the criminal neglect of the rights and expec¬ 
tations of mother—and babyhood. 

It would not be putting it too forcefully if we should 
claim that sixty per cent, of the degeneracy in the racial 
struggle for supremacy of right over wrong, is tracable 
to this fertile source of evil. 

It is deeply to be regretted that a matter of such far- 
reaching interest has not long since been installed as a 
fundamental part in the educational formulae of every 
home of our fair land. 

In the discussion of the rights and expectations that 
are inherent to baby-life, it must be remembered that the 
mechanic, the physiologic and the medical conceptions do, 
by no means, exhaust the claims in fact. 

If the medical profession would associate the mechanic, 
the anatomic, the physiological and the chemical, with 
the psychic phases of life, the fakes of so-called Christian 
Science would very soon explode and fade away, and the 
system of rational medicine would receive an exalation and 
an accentuation that would paralyze the charlatanism, 
ignorance and superstition along these lines; and that 



134 


Not the King’s Wile 


which is more to be desired, Christianity would be given 
its true scientific relation to legitimate medicine—that of 
consistent obedience to the laws of conception, growth 
and development both personal and racial. 

The mechanic performance of baby’s anatomy, while 
it may suggest tribal traditions, does most emphatically 
point upward to the higher psychic realm for its better 
interpretation, and in this interpretation we will find the 
data for consummate life. 

The fitness of the physical mechanism of the baby must 
include the fitness of its origin, and will ever be found to 
reside in the determining factors of the soul. As long as 
medical therapeutics and chemical law leave out of their 
logic of formative life the spiritual element as a fact in 
embryo-cell development, so long will the unity of life be 
broken, and clashing inharmonies of life prevail. 

The perpetuity of the God-endowed normal conditions 
of baby’s body and also the perpetuity of true racial de¬ 
velopment must depend on the fidelity of parents and of 
those who are to become parents, in recognizing in a prac¬ 
tical way the influence of the soul on embryonic life and its 
subsequent development. 

The fact just stated appeals to me as the inherent 
right of every baby born into the world. Deny the baby 
this right, and there will, at once, be opened the flood¬ 
gates of incarnate hell against personal, social and civic 
life. Let modern medicine and up-to-date physiology di¬ 
vest themselves of the erroneous principle that these physi¬ 
cal phenomena in the baby’s every day life, are mere 
mechanical contrivances without the vital spark of en¬ 
dowed inner life, and let this doctrine become the funda¬ 
mental teaching of the rule and conduct of all who, one 
day, will be fathers and mothers, then there will be secured 
to babyhood the rights that will be sure progenitors of a 
better and nobler humanity. To the consummation of this 
purpose, let the physicians, the teachers of physiology and 
hygiene, the medical colleges and universities, become the 
liberal and enthusiastic expounders of this basic law of life. 

Let fathers and mothers inaugurate the home upon a 



Not the King’s Will 


135 


higher plane of living, with the laudable and holy purpose 
of perpetuating, through their sons and daughters, the 
ethical psychics which so divinely conserve typical physi¬ 
cal function. Let the baby’s rights be recognized in the 
dynamics of personal living, at least, one or two genera¬ 
tions before his advent into the ills of objective life; then 
there will come forth most sanguine hopes of a close ap¬ 
proximation to the apostolic standard of physical life: 
“I beseech you, therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, 
that ye present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, accept¬ 
able unto God, which is your reasonable service.” 

There is no retreat from the fact that the bioplasmic 
centers of life and growth in baby’s body have presiding 
over them a preendowed essence which imparts determina¬ 
tive force and direction to all subsequent life and char¬ 
acter. 

That it takes three generations to make a gentleman has 
its foundation in the scientific fact that the baby’s rights 
and expectations are to some degree pre-determined by the 
physical and the ethico-religious life of the parents and 
grand-parents. The generation of children now living 
and enjoying the best educational advantages which nine¬ 
teen centuries have given to the world, should in some 
potent way show the vital reciprocity of harmony and 
unity that should obtain between the bioplasmic cell-life of 
the phvsical and psychomental essence. Here it is, that we 
must search for the philosopher’s stone that will turn the 
God-given susceptibilities into habitual nobility; here it 
is, that we are to awaken formative factors of religious 
and ethical character that will inaugurate and put into 
perpetuative channels, a patrimony that will forever se¬ 
cure to the baby the inherent right to be well-born. 

In behalf of the babies yet unborn, let me say that the 
members of the medical fraternity can consistently, and 
should professionally, become specific centers from which 
shall emanate words of admonition and good counsel, so 
natural and co-ordinate with the routine of services in 
theoretical contact with the home life of their patrons. 

It is my firm belief that if the physician will take this 


136 


Not the King’s Will 


felicitous attitude in the way suggested, he will not only 
greatly enlarge his own efficiency, but will do more to 
produce better motherhood and, therefore, more to secure 
consummate rights to the babies than any other human 
means. 

Mr. President, I have been very much interested in Dr. 
Pennell’s excellent paper. The doctor has portrayed the 
rights and expectations of the baby in story form with 
brilliancy and enchantment of modern romance. A plea 
for the baby’s rights is a plea for release from many of the 
pernicious ills that are to-day, like so many parasites, 
feeding upon the vital part of human liberty. 


•MSSf+* 


Not the King’s Will 


137 


DOWN THE OHIO 

Song bird and the flowing river, 
Twilight and the boatman’s call; 

Light gleams that recede and quiver, 
Slow descent of the livid pall. 

Wave-laps and the hum of speeding, 
Soft breeze and the stars on high; 
Pathways through the night conceding, 
God’s peace ’neath the arching sky. 

Dawn break and the silent river, 
Spectral scenes night’s semaphore; 
Dewy vine clumps all a-shiver, 
Cock-crow on the purple shore. 

Sunshine and its gracious power 
’Neath the blue and with the breeze; 
Land and water all a-flower, 

Pansy blooms and sweet heart’s ease. 

Steam shriek and bells a-clanging, 
Gladsome shout and the merry meet; 
Whistling bouts and mad haranguing. 
Crash of wood and shove of feet. 

Hand-clasps and the silent river, 
Smiling eyes and heavy hearts ; 

Hearts aflame and hearts aquiver, 

Go and come upon its charts. 


•MBS*- 


138 


Not the King’s Will 


AT AN UNKNOWN SOLDIER’S 
GRAVE IN FRANCE 

A faithful heart herein was laid; 

Intrepid love to home it gave; 

And bore, with soul all unafraid 

The burdens of the bold and brave. 

The storms of war though long and wild, 

As some infernal scourging bane, 

Brought him a smile, serene and mild, 

And waked his soul’s sublime disdain. 

— Verdun , France —August, 1920. 





An Unknown Soldier’s Grave in France 










Not the King’s Will 


139 


THE WAR OF THE HUN 
ISN’T HELL 

A visiting angel, with Sherman’s tall shade, 

In Brussels saw bleeding the martyrs who fell, 

And crime upon crime until sick and dismayed, 

Then, horrified, questioned: “Are Huns from old Hell?” 

The warrior saluted and shook his gray head, 

With eyes full of pity for guileless appeal, 

Then rose to the height of a great thoroughbred 
And said, as he bowed with homage genteel: 

“No, ma’am! It’s unfair to the regions below 
To couple its class and excellent name, 

With crimes that for ages with vileness will glow, 

And have daedal Satan all covered with shame. 

“To murder a baby and fling its warm clay, 

With heartless delight, to the breast it had robbed, 

Great Hell would have fainted with honest dismay, 

And ordered itself to be ousted and mobbed. 

“So, Hell never ventured to corner mankind, 

Except by improving its plausible schemes; 

The acts of a Hun and his passions, combined, 

Are southmost from northmost of wicked Hell’s dreams. 

“We’ve seen how the Huns have dared to defile 
The Temple of Honor, the Court of the Pure, 

While Hell, put to shame, knelt rearward a mile, 

And wept o’er the wrongs their victims endure. 


140 


Not the King’s Will 


“Old Satan yet honors the promise he gave, 

On tumbling from bliss to the bottomless pit; 

But Huns, like a villain and the deepest-dyed knave, 
Reject ‘scraps of paper’ as pledges unfit. 

“The sick and the wounded, and they that attend, 

Old Satan ne’er once was known to attack; 

But Huns, with a vileness that naught can defend, 
Assigns them the bomb and the rifle’s death crack. 

“No ! These, born of Moloch and jade Jezebel, 

Were nurtured by Attila, whose name terrifies; 

They burst as his brood from the hell of Hell’s hell 
To murder and pillage in manhood’s disguise. 

— Republican-News , April 17, 1918. 




GIVE ME YOUR HAND 

The outstretched arms and paling face, 

In love of earth and home’s demand, 

Still struggling brave ’gainst Death’s embrace, 
“Give me your hand, give me your hand!” 

The River’s depth, the Vale’s deep gloom, 

Hard by the breath of Shadow fanned, 
Unerring points to Earth’s lone tomb, 

“Give me your hand, give me your hand!” 

A smiling face peers through the cloud, 
Seraphic hosts and music vanned, 

And Brother’s voice so gently loud, 

“Give me your hand, give me your hand!” 


Not the King’s Will 


141 


SONG OF THE SPIRIT OF DUST 

I am the Spirit of earth’s Dust, 

The Crucible of empty ends, 

The leveler to motes and rust 

Of all on which life’s night descends. 

My work, relentlessly, revolves, 

Attacking all organic forms, 

Till their embodiment resolves 

Into the motes of nameless swarms. 

My throne is built of broken bones, 

Which, mixt with powdered flesh and blood, 

Took form in Fate’s grim moulding stones 
Were snatched from life’s perturbing flood. 

Men call it Desolation’s Waste, retreat, 

Receiving Mint’s re-moulding flail, 

Where grit and meal and filings meet, 

Where pulses stop and mem’ries fail. 

All yearnings lie beneath my feet, 

All hopes are strangled in my storms, 

About me rise no incense sweet, 

Within, no charm to joy conforms. 

Cool crystal streams, deep sylvan glades, 

These realms of mine do not contain; 

Nor sun-kissed flowers, nor rustling blades, 

Nor dewdrops bright nor healing rain. 

To great and small, to sad and gay, 

I am a stranger, one unknown, 


142 


Not the King’s Will 


Who, lurking near, by night, by day, 
Unwelcome comes, but not alone. 

There, at the fore, with blasting breath, 

The source and fount of all my needs, 

With silent tread which men call Death, 

A sovran victor always leads. 

The alchemist, within whose rite 
Are born the creatures of his art, 

Has less of pride when cells unite 

Than I when mine tears them apart! 

^ ^C- it? % & 

Like as a gem to catch the gleam 

Of distant suns, The Earth was flung 
Far into space, a god-like dream, 

When man was not and Time was young. 

t 

A thing of awe within which lay 

Unnumbered cells, in light-eyed sleep, 
Awaiting life’s incoming day 

When they would start their outward creep. 

Each cell brought forth its destined kind, 
LTnhindered by its vital guest— 

Here one with God-like, upright mind, 

Here one with evil bent obsessed; 

And they to whom both right and wrong 
Are as the ways of God, unknown— 

All choiceless, but, as mountains, strong, 

Or weak as kinglets overthrown; 

They came to fill the law of change— 

And forms were fashioned for this need, 

In tastes and homes, that nothing strange 
Should mar the work which fate decreed. 




Not the King’s Will 


143 


When men appeared with chartered tread, 

As gods they rode and sailed, or soared 
Above the clouds with arms outspread, 

Of earth and sea and sky the lord. 

Yet they as grass but ran their race 
At early morn or shadowed eve— 

Their bits of life and kingly grace 

Like they who fear, made haste to leave. 

And Change, the Crack O’ Doom’s great Mill, 
Reducing factor of the spheres, 

Reared heaps of dust with wondrous skill, 

And hid their names beneath the years. 

When cooling earth and arid soil— 

Grim workers with the hand of Change— 
Give lessened harvest to great toil, 

And to my sway an ampler range. 

Just simple forms survive; the flail 
Of motes from high to low estates 
Yet swifter moves, as structures fail, 

And hurries as it abrogates. 

Hard in the wake of dying things 
The sovran victor sends his stride; 

And I, as heir, mid prosperings, 

Gaze on my realm with head-high pride. 

At last, the earth will not reply 
To plow or hoe; the germ of seeds 
Within its wrinkled shell, does lie, 

Released from life’s most urgent needs. 

I am the Spirit of the Dust, 

The lord and king of empty ends, 

The emperor of motes and rust, 

And all on which life’s night descends! 




144 


Not the King’s Will 


LINCOLN 

A clear-cut figure, homely, tall, 

A sad-kind face, deep grooved and spare, 

With high-crowned hat and knit-wool shawl, 
Graced rustic bench and chieftain’s chair. 

A man of men whose stalwart brow 
Gave deep analysis a throne, 

Wherein were solved the end and how 
Of problems round his pathway strown. 

A human maul that wedged its way ; 

A silken roll to please with joke; 

An eye that caught the future’s ray, 

An ear to which deep silence spoke. 

Upon the summit of his times 

He stood alone, Columbia’s Knight, 

And subtly pierced, like high-pitched chimes, 
The mists that blurred his country’s plight. 

Below, the roar of passion’s storms, 

The clash and jar of master wills, 

The groans and cries of dark-skinned forms 
That rent his heart with sharp-set thrills. 

Then War, the arbiter of Wrath 

And Vengeful Fury, fanned the blaze 

Until a mighty flame burned in the path 
Where men were held in Clamor’s maze. 

The southland w r ould a fellow man 
His neck to iron chains make bend; 



Statue of Lincoln 
Chicago 













































































Not the King’s Wile 


145 


But northland’s view, benignant, ran: 

“Sweet Freedom’s Home is Thralldom’s end.” 

The guns that blazed where Southrons led, 
Though loud they spoke and oft and brave, 
Yet could not drown the voice that pled: 

“No nation lives half free, half slave!” 

Yet from the fields of Discord’s hosts 

The cries of those held down and chained, 

Or leashed, as beasts, to whipping-posts, 

The breath of day and night profaned. 

His heart from youth indignant stirred 

When those drear sounds its chambers filled, 
And he resolved, with deep-meant word, 

To be their death, if God so willed. 

Now speaks a voice from Columbia’s Chair, 

The will of God in its decree: 

“All men who master’s shackless wear 
Are now and always shall be free!” 

The world, agog, unsettled cried: 

“What man is this who dares set free 
These simple folk that prate dull-eyed, 
Untrained to cope with liberty?” 

And Time gave answer: “Hold thy mouth! 

Behold, the paths of men agree! 

And, looking, see the North and South 
Are yoked in mankind’s ministry!” 

The white man’s heart, the black man’s soul, 
Have fields of work in common cause; 

A common weal, a common goal, 

In brighter days with nobler laws. 


146 


Not the King’s Will 


Upon the summit of all time, 

The type humane, the noble, pure, 
Great Lincoln stands alone, sublime, 
For such come not to sepulture. 


•♦4SI8M- 

MY BONNIE LASS AND I 

Yes, side by side we trod the dell, 

My Bonnie lass and I; 

I loth to say a long farewell, 

She with gift to prophesy. 

“The dell is shorter than the hour,” 

My fretted soul cried loud ; 

“Then nearer waits your wreath of pow’r,” 
Her heartsome voice avowed. 

She plucked the roses by the way, 

I heard the dove-mate’s coo ; 

She laughed as happy fairies may, 

I sighed as yearners do. 

I claimed a pansy from the path, 

And she a sprig of rosemary. 

“One can but give of what he hath,” 

I said with hope’s sad ecstasy. 

“But absence kills remembrance, Jean,” 

As fast she twirled the pansy round; 

“So thoughts are better told, I ween,” 

And soothing cheer my tongue unbound. 

So, arm in arm, we trod the dell, 

Transformed for us to wonderland; 

She bidding me my fears dispel, 

I in heights bright rainbow-spanned. 


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147 


THE FLAG OVERHEAD 

(While Dr. W. W. Pennell was in Honolulu he be¬ 
came greatly interested in the plan of “Baby Week” pro¬ 
moters to have an American flag floating for a week from 
every house which sheltered a child under five years of age. 
Under the inspiration of this idea, Dr. Pennell wrote some 
lines which were published in the Honolulu Star-Bulletin 
of April 19 under the caption, “The Flag Overhead.” He 
pictures a mother rejoicing because of the convalescence 
of her sick baby, but grieving for those she has lost because 
of the lack of information and advice supplied to her later 
by those who have become interested in saving the babies.) 
—Mount Vernon, Ohio, Republican-News, May 6, 1916. 

The crisis had passed and the battle was won, 

The Flag overhead in the breeze! 

And Mother kept vigil while baby slept on, 

The Flag overhead in the breeze! 

The heart of the Mother could scarcely avoid 
The longings that thrilled her and bowed her head low, 
Since knowledge and progress together destroyed 
The scourge that had threatened with all of its woe; 
For luminous faces appeared in the air, 

And whispers familiar arose to her ear, 

As out of the past, to rejoice with her there, 

The babes that it held came lovingly near; 

Alone with the babes of the past she communed, 

As watching and waiting she sat by the cot, 

Her heart to the life that was flowing attuned, 

Her soul in its sadness for those that were not, 

With Flag overhead in the breeze! 

The Nation has need that its babies’ highway, 

With Flag overhead in the breeze! 

Should lead them in safety through babyhood’s day, 


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With Flag overhead in the breeze! 

To years of a man, and the years of a maid, 

Both mentally sound and morally clean, 

With bodies intact and wills unafraid, 

To grapple their callings steadfastly, serene. 

In babes of to-day, and regardless of grain, 

Perceive all the actors in future affairs ; 

There’s fathers to teach, and there’s mothers to train, 
To valiantly meet life’s joys and its cares. 

The debt that we owe to the man of next year 
We cannot evade, though cavil we may; 

This man of the future is a brother, I fear, 

And we but his keepers preparing his way, 

With Flag overhead in the breeze! 

Honolulu, T. H., April 17, 1916. 


QUEEN OF THE RACE-TRACK 

Clean limbs and agile swift bearing the bay, 

Scarcely seemed touching the sands of the way. 

Shouts from her well-wishers, the race-track beside, 
Quicken her sinews, give steel to her pride. 

Taunts but determine and lengthen her stroke; 
Striving and hast’ning, such scoffs but provoke. 

Foremost is vict’ry, defeat courts the rear; 

Sharper the vision as the goal draws anear. 

Steadily onward, with nostrils aflame, 

Laughing defiance while winning a name! 

Huzzas and laughter is the music she hears; 

“Queen of the Race-track” is the laurel she wears. 

Matapedia, Quebec, August 1, 1913. 


Not the King’s Will 


149 


COMPENSATION 

The rivers lie between the hills, 

The meads between the mountains, 
To feed Earth’s treasures to its mills, 
Its waters to its fountains. 

The farmer rides upon his plow, 
Likewise bestrides his harrow, 

That he may smooth the nation’s brow 
And give its bones their marrow. 

1918. 




IF 

If to wish that you w r ere near me, 

*/ * 

Day and night that you might cheer me; 
If to dream that I have found you, 
Face to face, my arms around you ; 

If to thirst for your devotion, 

Wide as seas and deep as ocean; 

If from you I seek a greeting, 

Wealthful glow of welcome meeting; 

If your voice I’d have rejoicing, 
Happiness and peace invoicing; 

If it be that when I waken, 

The dear image fact has taken;— 

Still enshrined within me wholly, 

There to nurture deeply, solely ; 

If to trust you fully, willing, 

Far from doubt’s envenomed chilling; 

If to these, and these, I consecrate you, 
Love is the spring—I cannot hate you ! 



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Not the King’s Will 


SEA SICKNESS 

It’s a yearning, 

Strong and burning; 

It’s a craving, 

Madly raving; 

All the world’s a-jiggle like a distant twinkling star. 

It’s a whirling, 

And a twirling; 

It’s a sounding 
And confounding, 

Like creation’s motors in a swift and mighty jar! 

It’s an illness, 

Limp and stillness; 

It’s a deadness, 

All abedness, 

Of enjoyment or of comfort, all a perfect dearth. 

It’s a rising, 

Not sufficing; 

It’s a rolling, 

Unconsoling; 

Everlasting wishing and a looking for the earth! 

It’s a heaving, 

Not relieving; 

It’s a retching, 

Far from fetching, 

Till you wonder where Old Neptune’s barque is flying! 

It’s a thirsting 
That is bursting; 

It’s where hoping 
Goes a groping; 

Mid the woes of earth it’s ev’ry horrid thing but dyin 

—Medical Pickwick, Nov., 1921. 


•MBS** 


Not the King’s With 


151 


THE SMALL CITY VISITOR 

A stranger there came to the city one day, 

And stopped at the tavern as any man should; 

Engaged him a chamber wherein he might stay, 

And rest from his labors in sweet solitude. 

“Be seated, strange sir,” said the knight of the pen, 

As “Front! Front!” he thundered, and tingled his bell. 

“Your room will be ready, a fine specimen, 

When dinner is o’er in this blooming hotel. 

“Meanw T hile, let me crave you, my honored dear sir, 

To sit in the office and study the news; 

Or read, if you’d rather, our Daily Astir , 

Whose locals we dote on; they drive away blues.” 

The stranger complied, and gave thanks for the sheet; 
Then hoisted his heels to the mantel’s sheer height 

That brains might be nourished by the blood of the feet, 
Which primly had traveled through places upright. 

Adown the filled columns his vision he ranged, 

From dog-fight to man-fight, or “Smith has arriven,” 

Till stricken with shivers, and manner deranged, 

He stared at the paper and murmured “O Heaven!” 

His courage he summoned and again he perused: 

“Tom Simpson was mangled by fall of a tree! 

All over his body lie’s broken and bruised, 

But Doctor Reviver, the noted M.D., 

“Has charge of the victim, we’re happy to say, 

Who, though that Tom’s chances seem slim as a rail, 


152 


Not the King’s Will 


Has sutured and buttoned, the new-fangled way, 

With strict antisepsis that’s never known fail.” 

The stranger smiled blandly; Tom Simpson was safe; 
Then glanced down the column, his heart throbbing 
light: 

There came to his optics the printer’s next waif, 

Which sent to his heart-strings their greatest affright. 

“Wee Mary de Smithers, alone by the fire, 

Pulls over a kettle and is scalded to death! 

But later we learn, through the telephone wire, 

Reviver got there before the last breath, 

“And poured on her blisters the oily compound 
His measureless wisdom invented last year, 

And Mary is resting at ease, safe and sound, 

While far away slinks the parents’ great fear.” 

A piercing shrill laugh from the knight of the pen, 

Awoke the thrilled stranger as might a great strife; 
“My breath, did he save it, you ask me, and when? 

Why, sure to Reviver, I owe my own life. 

“You see, I was ailing, was ailing all day, 

And sicker and sicker till I became numb, 

When Sade called Reviver, “Do hurry, I pray!” 

Reviver said: “No, I can’t possibly come!” 

The dining room closed on the stranger’s tall form, 

His napkin kept hiding a smile broad but neat; 

And later his chamber heard laughter’s great storm, 

And looked on a dance that was new and complete. 




Not the King’s Will 


153 


ZILLAH 

In olden times, the legends say, 

When wrong would wield its powers, 
God’s wrath destroyed its protege 
And gave the world new flowers. 


A rock-strewn rise in Palestine 
Gave home to Ur’s fair daughter, 

Whose dark-brown eyes at seventeen 
Were bright like sparkling water. 

An honest maid whose Jewish soul 
Went out to those despairing; 

And her sweet smile, an aureole, 

Gave comfort and upbearing. 

Around her home the flowers grew, 
Perfuming field and garden; 

Spring brooklets ran its grasses through, 
Their gurglings praying pardon. 

Soft breezes heard the hum of bees 
And whispered in the cedars ; 

While songsters near with jubilees 
Gave Zillah’s heart its leaders. 

Upon a mount, of worlds the gem, 

Its roofs a magic story, 

She could behold fair Bethlehem, 

But not its destined glory. 

Above its flues she heard no songs, 
Foretelling that a stranger, 


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Not the King’s Will 


With shouts of joy from heavenly throngs 
Would bless an humble manger. 

Her psalms the zephyr’s wings upbear 
To waving Held and hillside; 

And pilgrims kneel like monks at pray’r 
To listen at the rillside. 

She had no ear for Cupid’s tongue, 

Though it was soft and pleading; 

Her heart had found its work among 
The sick, the weak and needing. 

The village folk seemed as her own, 

And she one of their daughters; 

On whom Jehovah, from His throne, 

Poured out His living waters. 

A precious one than whom no charm 
Has led to change its setting; 

A fragrant bloom for which no harm 
Could skillful spread its netting. 

Earth’s rarest gem is honest worth 
Which long escaped its scandals; 

And Time will end when human birth 
Refuses light to vandals. 

A drunken sot saw her sweet face, 

It stirred him out of measure; 

He set to have it soon displace 
The creatures of his pleasure. 

Upright and pure, with purpose clear, 

Her soul revolted, hating 

The hapless day that drew him near, 

Her presence violating. 


Not the King’s Will 


155 


When evil minds come to defeat 
Their anger turns to slander, 

And falter not, in ways unmeet, 

To lend it traits of candor. 

Thus he, rebuffed, in falsehood’s spleen, 
Contending he was blameless, 

Vowed to the priest, with oaths unclean, 
Her life was vile and shameless. 


The law was Fate. No woman’s voice 
Would dare to make denial, 

When noblemen, from unsought choice, 
Told tales of an espial. 

There was no hope! ’Twas hers to die 
By fire her flesh consuming! 

If woman would the laws defy, 

She was her end foredooming. 

Yet Zillah’s psalm rose clear and free, 
And echoed far the burning, 

While round her gibed coarse levity, 
Her smile of virtue spurning. 

The fagots threw their tongues aloft, 
And spread like fans their anger, 

As, heatless, they the judgment scoffed 
And chided public clangor. 

Their flame, a fretted serpent’s tongue, 
In vengeance, outward flashes, 

And to the sot-accuser clung 
Till he was burned to ashes. 

What thing is this ? The embers dead 
A miracle discloses— 

Fair Zillah’s free and round her head 
A crown of white sweet roses ! 


156 


Not the King’s Will 


Unsated lust, thus unaware, 

Though always undeserving, 

Gave to the world a treasure rare 

Through worth that was unswerving. 

1922. 




A PRAYER 

Let thy mercy cover me, 

I am thine! 

Like a holy canopy, 

Thou art mine! 

Mercy for my sinful ways, 

And for all my ill-spent days, 

Grant to me! 

Place me on the Living Rock, 
Strength to bear each jeer and mock 
While I rest my soul on Thee, 

Thou ransomed One of Calvary, 

Let Thy mercy and Thy love 
On me fall from Thee above. 




Not the King’s Will 


157 


THE WOODCHOPPER 


Written for an entertainment of the Nashville, Ohio, 

Sabbath School 


A chopper of wood, to the forest one day, 

Went singing, along, a strange roundelay; 

His heart was as glad as the grasses that wave 
When rains of refreshing their rootlets enlave, 

And kissed by the zephyrs of summer’s soft morn, 

While thousands of diamonds their blades bright adorn ; 
His form strong and manly, his step blithe and free, 
His features were noble, his song full of glee. 

“O I’m a woodchopper, a workman am I, 

For pleasanter life all the world I defy! 

I sing but the song of the brooks and the birds, 

Their babble and twitter I change into words ; 

And all the day long the whole forest rings 
With music re-echoed, that to my heart brings 
The keenest enjoyment and lasting content, 

That to this my life does me firmer cement. 

I fell the great oak and the towering pine, 

I cleave them asunder for your and for mine; 

Their branches I pile into many a heap, 

And burn them with flames that crackle and leap. 
Where hung the deep shadows from boughs overhead, 
That sickened the flowers upon the moss-bed, 

A space have I opened, admitting the beams 
Of summer’s warm sunshine in life-giving streams, 

To flower and shrub and the yellow-clothed vine, 

That budded in darkness in shadow to pine; 

They shrink like a maiden from first warm embrace 
Of love all requited, with coyness and grace, 

Before the first kisses of wind and of sun, 


158 


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And boast the new life they lately have won. 

The dews of the morning they drink in joy mute, 
And nightly the moon and the stars they salute. 
The serpent and lizard have fled from the light, 
And they that love shadows have taken their flight. 
The soil that was mouldy and covered with moss, 
Where mingled were leaves and spiders’ silk floss, 
Its gratitude blooms in a thousand sweet flowers 
To minister fragrance, in comforting showers, 
Upon the skilled farmer who scatters his grain 
To harvest the fruits of his labor and pain, 

While I, the woodcliopper, the forests have sought, 
To other deep shadows the sun have I brought; 
And gaily I sing as the brooks and the birds, 
Whose babble and twitter I change into words.” 


I thank you, Woodchopper, for singing your song, 

Whose melodies reach me this summer’s day long; 

I’m busy digesting the rich flood of thought, 

Whose fount is your song that with lessons is fraught. 

The choppers of wood and the choppers of men! 

The one with his axe makes the field from the glen, 

To bloom with sweet flowers and yellow-hued grain, 

Where mosses and leaf-heaps for ages have lain; 

The other with sword of the spirit goes forth, 

From east and from west and from south and from north 
To level the forests of darkness and sin, 

With songs of rejoicing, a pure heart within. 

Men’s hearts are the glen where will flourish the pine 
Of infidel doubt and of evil design; 

Where spreads the dense coppice of lust and of pride, 
That places with others will never divide. 

Beneath their deep shadows a few flowers spring— 
Remains of a childhood that even yet cling; 

Around and beyond them the mosses have grown— 
Abortions of seeds by a mother’s hand sown, 

While clinging to naught a vine, there, is found,— 

The vine of true love that evil has drowned. 




Not the King’s Will 


159 


Here, hissing and coiling, the serpent of hate 
Is calling deceit, his slimiest mate. 


The coppice has fallen and the towering pine, 
And now the bright sun of the gospel can shine 
In life-giving splendor that never can fade, 


Where darkness and shadow so heavily laid 
Their curse and their blight on a fertile heart-soil, 

And fruitless results were the harvests of toil. 

But now there’s a vine of pure love growing high, 

That flowers of virtue are springing up by, 

Whose fragrance arises as incense to God, 

Whose praises and mercies they ever will laud; 

They live in His presence, are fanned by His breath; 
Their leaflets and petals shall never taste death. 

The Seed of the Word that the sower has sown, 

Fed by the soft dews to the harvest has grown; 

No cockle is found when the reaper has come, 

To garner the sheaves in his heavenly home, 

Of virtue and faith and a life full of prayer— 

An hundred-fold harvest for nurture and care. 

June 19, 1882. —Millersburg Republican. 




160 


Not the King’s Wile 


SONG OF WINTER 

Over the plains of a snowy waste 

Where the fierce storming no human has faced; 

Over the heights of the flintiest ice, 

For whose steep scaling there can be no price; 

Over the mountain and over the vale, 

Over deep seas with never a sail, 

I came with a song on the wings of the wind 
Away from my Northern Home! 

Strong mid the bergs is my Boreal throne; 

Solemn, most feared of the silent north zone, 
Guiding an empire of solitude vast 
Ages on ages long fled to the past. 

Absolute rule in my kingdom I bear— 

Never a Spring can conquer me there, 

So strong is my fortress and valiant my troop— 
Up there in my Northern Home! 

Blasts of my breath shall curdle your rills, 

Bind in a vise the ponds of your mills, 

Harden your lakes into mirrors of glass, 

Stiffen the blades of Autumn’s rich grass, 

Sear the late flowers and lay their stalks low, 
Then shall I carpet them all with my snow, 

And over them sing my merriest song 
About my Northern Home! 

Frosts shall embroider your windows at night, 
Creep into cellars and paint their walls white, 
Cover the trees with a foliage fair 
That in the sunlight will glitter and glare; 

Harshly the snow will creak under your feet, 
Tingling, sharp chills will round your ears meet, 
While I will be there to sing you my song 
About my Northern Home! 

1883 —Millersburg Republican. 




Song of Winter 


















Not the King’s Will 


161 


ONE OF THE GUARDS 


An Incident of the World War 

“The guard, as the bomb came down, struck it into the 
water where it harmlessly exploded. He calmly resumed 
his patrolling.”— Dispatch. 

Standing as one to a danger unknown, 

Silent and keen with an upturned gaze, 

Waiting its fall, an engine of death— 

One of the guards. 

Youthful of years but with features of stone, 

Set as a man’s with spirit ablaze, 

Valor and daring bating his breath— 

One of the guards. 

Down from the clouds with its hatred inshelled, 

Egg of the beast of the upper air, 

Menacing women and infants and him— 

One of the guards. 

Swiftly descending as a thing compelled, 

Whining to do all its masters dare, 

Ogre of ogres with death as its whim— 

Seen by the guard. 

True to his land and the vestments he wore, 

Sweeping the menace far from its goal, 

Into the river to smother and die— 

Struck by the guard. 

Duty to valor had opened its door; 

Thoughtless of tribute and Fame’s ruddy scroll 
His to defeat the beast of the sky— 

Simply a guard! 


1918. 





162 


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ELEGY 

In a Dissecting Room 

Within this gaping tegument, the pale skin’s shade, 

Because, forsooth, they could not make an outward leap, 

Each in his narrow cell, as ’Gyptian mummies laid, 

The bacteroidal thieves of this cadaver sleep. 

The twisting call of colic-breeding corn, 

The salad fracas, hot as molten lead, 

The pie’s shrill fluency, or pudding’s horn, 

No more on earth shall call them to be fed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 

No simple housewife ply reluctant care; 

No children run to lisp their sire’s return, 

And tell him of the household’s bill of fare. 

Swift did this body to their toxins yield, 

A pathway to the stubborn nerves they broke; 

How forward did they rush, tide on, concealed, 

How bowed the man beneath their fatal yoke! 

Let not profession mock their morbid toil, 

Their septic joys, oft difficult of cure; 

Or Science hear, with disdainful smile, 

The simple tale of those whose work is sure. 

The boast of Medicine, that would not cower, 

And all that Surg’ry, all that Care e’er gave, 

Were flung in vain against their power— 

The streams they swum were flanked by many a grave! 

Dare not, ye scribes, impute to these a fault, 

If thousands rush to bend on them a wond’ring gaze, 



Not the King’s Will 


163 


And silent stand beneath this fretted vault, 
Unsettled how to blame or render praise. 

If marbled flesh, or chill unsensing breast, 

As once, can house no more the fleeting breath, 

Would chiding’s voice disturb a peaceful rest, 

Or tribute soothe the dull, cold ear of death? 

Maybe, for some prolific part, is laid 

Some force now pregnant with vocation’s fire— 

Fire that the eye of blindness hath not stayed, 

Or give to healing all that illness could desire. 

So Mis’ry to these germs her awful page, 

Rich with the tales of quest, did not unroll; 

Mistaken pride repressed that noble rage, 

And hushed the anxious message of her soul. 

Full many a germ, flamboyant dyed, serene, 

The dark unopened haunts of the belly bear; 

Full many a coccus there may dance unseen, 

And add its toxins to the scatose air. 

Some Iliac Hampden, who, with dauntless breast, 
The Caecum’s tyranny hath long withstood— 

Some gay, unknown Bacillus there may nest, 

Some Spirochaet whose quarry is the blood. 

The praise of list’ning students to command, 

The threats of Surg’ry and coal-tar to embrace, 

To scatter ailings o’er a hard taxed land, 

And grin to see the scowls upon a Nation’s face, 

Their jobs indulged; nor circumscribed alone 

Their growing vices, nor their crimes confined;— 

Allowed to lodge where each could cause a groan, 
They sealed the gates of mercy on mankind. 




164 


Not the King’s Will 


The struggling pangs of slow-paced Truth to hide, 

To lull the cries that rose from inward flame, 

Was built this shrine of Scrutiny to chide 
And give to Art the scalpel’s lasting fame. 

Henceforth, the doctor’s balm, the surgeon’s knife, 
Pursue such vandals close each week and day; 

To clear and keep the hallowed vale of life, 

They tear them from the covert tenor of their way. 

Yon tall cognomial, so harmless decked 

With names uncouth, for them erected high, 

That it might from Eugenics’ sneers protect, 

Is tott’ring from its place beneath the sky. 

Their banes, their mischiefs, to th’ unlettered Muse, 
The steel of fortitude and Will supply; 

Full many a holy text they round did choose, 

That they might guide the skillful knife awry. 

Epitaph 

Here rests, his head upon this lap of earth, 

A youth to fortune and to fame unknown; 

Yet Science laughed not at his humble birth, 

Since Streptococci marked him for their own. 

Though small was his appendix and colon bad, 
Executor a recompense did send; 

He gave to Science his young life, and glad, 

He gained from her with many thanks a friend. 

—Medical Pickwick, October, 1920. 




Not the King’s Wile 


165 


AMERICAN LIBERTY 


UNITED STATES, our fathers’ land 
Upreared of God to rule, command, 

The realm of right and Liberty, 

We offer Love and Loyalty! 

Long had our sires in darkness dwelt, 

Long had their knees to monarchs knelt, 
When Freedom’s face burst through the mist, 
And gladness gave the land it kissed. 

She set afloat her starry flag 
On lowmost field and highmost crag, 

And bade its folds a refuge be 
To all who fled from tyranny. 

Within that sacred sphere we hold 
That human hearts are more than gold, 

And human rights than precious stones, 

Or wide domains and kingly thrones. 


1918. 




WATCH YOUR STEP 

Don’t dig the world, it may dig you, 

And dig with a sharper claw, 

And open the way to your sensitive nerves, 

And leave them all bleeding and raw. 

Don’t growl at the world; it’s older than you 
Heard growlings before you were born. 

It’s hardened to growls and hardened to taunts— 
Don’t give of your strength to the grumbler’s horn. 





166 


Not the King’s Wile 


PICKNICKING 

“Now, Bettie,” smiled foxy young Hugh, 
“Let’s settle just what we will do. 

You eat all the ’taters and bread, 

And I’ll have the puddin’ instead. 

But, mebby, you’ll say that’s unfair— 
That you’re not getting your share; 

So, I’ll take the puddin’ as said, 

And you’ll have the ’taters and bread.” 
Then Bettie glanced quickly at him 
And lustily cried with much vim: 

“0, what a big piggie and dunce! 

You never did ‘puddin’ ’ me once!” 




THE ROSE 

I found a rose beneath the eaves, 
There thrown aside a useless thing. 
Its petals bore a shameful grime, 

A fetor masked its fragrance prime, 
Its grace divine dishonoring. 

I picked it up and smoothed its leaves ; 
I cleansed it from its grime and mold; 
I gave it light, I gave it food, 

And lo! it leaped with life renewed, 
And fragrance shed a thousandfold. 


Picknicking 










Not the King’s Will 


167 


THE FUTURE 
OF PEDIATRIC SCIENCE 

(The presidential address to the Ohio State Pediatric 
Society, Youngstown, December 5, 1906.) 

G ENTLEMEN:—It is not my intention to consume 
your valuable time by a series of enconiums on the 
work that has been done in pediatric science. Suffi¬ 
cient will it be to refer to the impulse given to this branch 
of medical and surgical investigation by Jacobi a quarter 
of a century ago and the splendid advances that have fol¬ 
lowed—advances that have rivalled those of sister depart¬ 
ments in brilliancy of achievement and value of literature. 

It is only through a deep and abiding interest in the 
welfare of children that investigators have been enabled to 
place their art in the position it now occupies. By uniting 
their efforts, bringing the fruits of their labors before as¬ 
sembled bodies of their fellow workmen for collaboration 
and criticism, the field enlarged, and has yielded a won¬ 
derful amount of distinctive scientific knowledge. The re¬ 
sults have demonstrated that such organizations as the 
Ohio State Pediatric Society should be fostered and per¬ 
petuated, because of the special work that they do, and 
because experience has shown that particular departments 
of medicine are best promoted by specific investigation. 

To establish a vigorous race, to have a people strong in 
all their faculties, worthy to assume the role of safe and 
sane citizenship, is a work of the most ideal scope. If we 
would accomplish all to which our science is dedicated, we 
must dig deep into the causes that lead to the strongest, 
best, most natural babyhood possible. We must not for¬ 
get that the child of to-day will be the adult of tomorrow; 
that the child’s health is very often the index of the health 



168 


Not the King’s Will 


of the adult; that the biologic, physiologic and anatomical 
changes that occur in its body, from the earliest moment 
of possible modification to its advent into manhood, are 
worthy of consideration and enforcement. 

To be well equipped for the demands of life it is neces¬ 
sary that the child should be physiologically and anatomi¬ 
cally developed. In anticipation of this degree of per¬ 
fection, the earliest possible moment in which a guiding in¬ 
fluence can be exerted in his behalf should be employed. 
The health of his mother, before his birth as well as after, 
should be considered. Her worries, her pleasures, her la¬ 
bors and her exposures, to say nothing concerning her food 
and her environments, exert quite as much influence on the 
child which is to be as the same forces do on the babe that 
is. Because she is the mother of the little people whom we 
serve is sufficient reason for placing her under the most 
favorable conditions during the time, at least, that she is 
discharging her greatest function. 

The welfare of the nation lies in the welfare of its chil¬ 
dren. Their possibilities, powers, weaknesses and tenden¬ 
cies all bear on national achievements. How well, then, 
should they be born! How well, also, should their mothers 
understand the principles that are to be employed that 
their children may grow in the direction of the greatest 
health, refinement and understanding! 

It is a beautiful sentiment that fosters the flickering; life 

CJ 

in the sickly, incurable little body. “Oh, that my baby 
may just live!” cries the distressed mother. And, Mother, 
how often does the physician turn from your groaning be¬ 
cause your babe cannot only live , but live and be healthy, 
mentally and physically. Living children, alive to pain, 
disease, disfigurement or defectiveness, but dead to the 
ordinary abilities and fruits of an active, inspiring life; 
why ? 

The work of the pediatrist and the obstetrician should 
be blended. It is not enough that the child’s introduction 
to the world should have ritualistic precision. The womb 
should be its preparation room, from which it should 
emerge “well recommended.” 


Not the King’s Will 


169 


The ideal pediatrist is more than a physician to sick 
children. That is a work which he makes subsidiary to his 
greater function—that of preventing disease, of improv¬ 
ing the race. 

Who so interested in the physical and mental health of 
the unborn babe as the pediatrist? Is he not, next if not 
before the parents, anxious to know, when the breath of 
life has been breathed into new nostrils, that the tender 
being has been gifted with all the faculties of mind and 
body? While not a believer in the danger of “race suicide,” 
yet he has long ago learned that quality and not quantity 
is the desirable fruit of marriage. Mothers need educat¬ 
ing, fathers need enlightenment, along family lines, not 
only in the begetting, but also in the rearing of children. 

No other hand, after that of the mother’s, can so well 
direct the growing and developing child as that of the 
skilled pediatrist. His methods must differ from that of 
his brother physician who is directing the care and treat¬ 
ment of those of older years, when the bodily organs are 
simply performing functions. The tissues and organs that 
come under the care of the pediatrist are immature— 
growing and developing—in which functions are not per¬ 
forming as rhythmically nor as resolutely; tissues and 
organs exquisitely sensitive, not only to every mood and 
bodily condition, but to every salutary surrounding and 
prejudicial environment. 

The*pediatrist seeks to teach the mother to feed her babe 
so that it may escape the evils that follow in the wake of 
ignorant methods of alimentation. One sees none of those 
scorbutic and rachitic children where the principles of food 
modification adjust the food to the child, according to 
his years and needs. So much have these methods over¬ 
shadowed all preceding ones, so conspicuous have been 
their good results, that the laity has become alive to the 
importance of the sort of food which is best suited to the 
development of the child into a man or a woman, with all 
faculties intact. 

The power of a child’s resistance to a certain amount 
of wrong feeding accounts for the many vagaries in treat- 



170 


Not the King’s Wiel 


ment and feeding that have found vogue. Little by little 
we are beginning to understand that a child’s system 
readily appropriates our proffered aids, while rejecting 
our friendly hindrances, when not too radical. Little by 
little we study children from a different viewpoint than 
that of the adult. 

In the matter of the management of disease the pediat¬ 
rist, like other physicians, preaches the doctrine of pre¬ 
vention. More general than ever is the application of 
vaccination for the prevention or modification of small¬ 
pox, avoiding the horrors of pitting, blindness, deafness, 
if not death. More general than ever is there an effort 
put forth to prevent gonorrhoeal ophthalmia. 

The adoption of the plan of quarantine in all communi¬ 
cable diseases finds its remuneration in the suppression of 
those great epidemics of a decade ago. People with such 
diseases expect to be quarantined; a different attitude on 
the part of the health officer in our day would excite sur¬ 
prise. 

The almost universal use of diphtheria antitoxin as a 
preventive step in the control of diphtheria has been most 
brilliantly successful, shearing a once dreaded malady of 
its consequences. When employed early as a curative 
agent it has no equals, its only mission seeming to be the 
destruction of the diphtheria toxin without harm to the 
patient. 

The present vantage ground has not been gained with¬ 
out opposition. The road has a long and rugged one. 
Superstition, ignorance, vice and indifference have beset 
the resolute pioneers, hindering the adoption of rational 
principles. 

That children can and do thrive, after a fashion, under 
the most adverse and unhygienic circumstances is not to 
be doubted; but not because of them. Rather say, in 
spite of them. Likewise, here and there a child may grow 
fat and strong on apparently unhealthy food, escaping 
serious digestive and intestinal complications. Such ac¬ 
cidents have no value to the investigator, save to make 


Not the King’s Will 


171 


him wonder what might have been the much better out¬ 
come if an opposite course had been pursued. 

It is a common saying that children will grow up and 
be men and women, anyhow. No more thoughtless a re¬ 
mark could be made. There is something in bending the 
twig to incline the tree. It is true the races will grow to 
the stature of men and women, even if no hand is directing 
the process, and will faithfully preserve those differences 
so dear to the ethnologist, for that is nature. Yet those 
rotative crops will have very little in them to pleasantly 
appeal to the sociologist. 

The insignificant, sour crabapple will likewise grow up; 
each annual production will be like its predecessors. But 
apply a process of budding, grafting, fertilizing and nur¬ 
turing, striving to supplant quantity with quality, and 
the resulting improvement in the appearance of the fruit, 
its worth and nutritive value, are scarcely to be estimated. 
While these changes, for the most part, are observed in 
the appearance of the fruit, yet there has been an advance¬ 
ment in the anatomical and physiological life of the tree 
itself. It refuses to longer be a mere cumberer of the 
ground, though overshadowed by the surrounding tower¬ 
ing trees, whose heights seem dizzy and distant. Resolutely, 
acquiring boldness through the new life that impels it up¬ 
ward, it grows apace, its branches reach to the upper air, 
and, in season, with a pride almost impudent, holds its 
fruits into the sunshine to catch its most luscious coloring. 

The time has not arrived when man and his laws can 
control marriage and the direction given the shafts of 
Cupid. But a campaign of education is on. We do not 
want to beget more children but better ones. Better chil¬ 
dren means healthier ones, less prone to disease and less 
liable to degeneracies. 

One says, “The child is father to the man.” If that is 
true, then the embryo man must contain everything that 
can develop into a man indeed. If it does not, the child 
is father to the sort of man the embryo will grow into. If 
so be that it is the legatee of base passion, drunken rev¬ 
elry, passing fancy, dishonesty and mere wontonness, the 


172 


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residue of true manhood that is enclosed with these ten¬ 
dencies will be thin and shriveled and be the servant of the 
stronger proclivities. 

We all see these results and grant the truth of them. 
Plants and animals, whose destinies are in the hand of 
man are compelled to be better born than their ancestors, 
through selective methods. Man’s will is the great com¬ 
pelling power that is developing the most beautiful flowers, 
the most delightful fruits and the noblest specimens of 
various animals from the common stock. May we not hope 
to dream of the day, chimerical as it may seem, when 
education, love of posterity and pride in the perpetuation 
of our great Nation shall be the trinity whose compelling 
power will cause men to apply the same sensible rules to 
himself? 


—Ohio State Medical Journal, August, 1907. 




Not the King’s Will 


173 


CERVICAL GLANDULAR 
INFECTION FROM DISEASES 
OF THE THROAT 

(Read before the Ear, Nose and Throat Section of the 
Ohio State Medical Association, May, 1911.) 

I N this essay the larynx is included in the term “throat” 
because of its proximity to the cervical glands. 

A passing glance at the anatomical relations exist¬ 
ing between the parts concerned, and their functions, may 
well introduce our title. The pharyngo-larynx receives 
arterial supply from the ascending pharyngeal, palatine 
and tonsillar branches of the facial, superior thyroid, in¬ 
ferior thyroid, descending palatine, spheno-maxillary and 
transversalis colli; its nerves proceed from the fifth, the 
glosso-pharyngeal, spinal accessory, superior laryngeal, 
recurrent branches of the pneumogastrics and filaments 
from the sympathetic; its lymphatic vessels and glands, 
superficial and deep, lie along the external jugulars, front 
and sides of the larynx, the external carotids and the in- 
ternal jugulars, as well alongside the trachea, oesophagus 
and pharynx. The lymphatic vessels, after ramifying and 
uniting the glands of this system, unite into two trunks 
which communicate with the thoracic and right lymphatic 
ducts; the remaining important glandular structures of 
the neck are the tonsils and salivary glands, all of which 
partake in the rich distribution of the lymphatic vessels 
and glands to be found about the head and other parts of 
the body. This region has its venous return through veins 
communicating with the posterior, internal and anterior 
jugulars, and has for its functions its part in deglutition, 
respiration, phonation, and, situated at the very entrance 



174 


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to the digestive and respiratory centers, is provided, nor¬ 
mally, with safeguards to health and comfort, even its 
lymphatics being charged with hindering the entrance into 
the body of any substance which might be adverse to its 
well-being—this being accomplished by the power of ab¬ 
sorption possessed by lymphoid tissue wherever found, in 
addition to the production of white blood-corpuscles. 

The power to winnow from the lymph any substance 
which may be inimical to the general system, acts at once 
the necessity arises; and the lymphatic glands of the neck, 
in common with like structures throughout the body, do 
arrest any such substance or agency originating in the 
throat and finding its way into the lymphatic vessels, if 
not too great in volume or noxious in quality. Then, un¬ 
like the behavior of glands that have absorbed inert or 
harmless material where no reaction follows, the recipients 
of deleterious agencies into a state of more or less activity, 
inflammation and enlargement. This activity may leave 
a long persisting enlargement or hyperplasia of the 
glands, or it may proceed to abscess and destruction of the 
gland with further and deeper involvement. Be the ex¬ 
citing agent what it may, its conveyance to the lymphatic 
glands by their vessels, its arrest by the glands and the re¬ 
sulting enlargement and inflammation constitutes infec¬ 
tion. 

In a general sense, age, health and constitution modify 
the intensity and extent of infection. The same rule ap¬ 
plies to those in whom a large immunizing power exists, 
or rather in whom the absorbents have a large capacity 
for neutralizing infecting agencies; better fortified, they 
are fortunate. On the other hand and at every oppor¬ 
tunity, some persons seem disposed to infection. We see 
this in the tuberculous whose glands are an easy prey to 
infection, and get large infections from little infecting 
material; others, after a period of resistance, succumb to 
persistent exposure which breaks down the barriers of re¬ 
sistance ; and again, there are those in whom the reception 
of small portions of septic materials is followed by disaster 
—the infective agency, finding a % medium most suited for 


Not the King’s Wile 


175 


its action as lethal ferment, and, unhindered by powerless 
lymphatics, soon makes a condition incompatible with life. 

Further, childhood and advanced age furnished me a 
larger percentage of glandular infections of the neck than 
the more vigorous period of life. The same ages have 
furnished the greatest number of severe, even fatal, re¬ 
sults from such conditions; and, in both, a preceding 
lymphangitis, though probably existing, was scarcely ever 
demonstrable. The infections, however, were generally 
quite acute and the adenitis not long delayed. By way 
of diversion and not to enlarge the scope of this essay, I 
have had many infections of the neck glands, in these ages, 
that had their origin in the teeth, gums and lips, and situ¬ 
ations other than the throat, a fact of value when investi¬ 
gating the cause of glandular inflammation anywhere. 
Many such, with this in view, could be dismissed from the 
suspicion of scrofula or tuberculosis; even those cases of 
lymphadenitis due to syphilis could, in like manner, be 
differentiated from those of other origins; their very 
chronicity being a key to their nature. 

Every infected gland becomes large, and every enlarged 
gland is infected, no matter where situated. The enlarge¬ 
ment is due to a hyperplastic change within the gland, the 
anatomy of which does not concern this paper. The 
glands nearest the distributing point of infective materials 
suffer first and most, those farther away being affected in 
proportionate ratio until all the morbid material has been 
arrested and neutralized, or has gained access to the gen¬ 
eral system and established general infection, the whole 
lymphatic arrangement powerless. 

By their anatomic relation to the lymphatic chains of 
the neck, the palate, pharynx, tonsils, larynx, mouth and 
nasal fossae, when diseased, can act as foci of infection. 
Any condition or state of these structures, other than that 
of good health, makes that relation undesirable. Any 
condition which impairs the protective power of these 
parts renders them susceptible to any infective agency 
which can gain admission to them. Any condition which 
hinders free ventilation in the pharynx increases its prone- 


176 


Not the King’s Wiee 


ness to become diseased; for, as in health, the pharynx re¬ 
ceives more air through the nose than through the mouth; 
in disease it most often receives more air through the 
mouth than through the nose, thus setting aside the great 
function of the upper pharynx, and lessening the amount 
of oxygen to that part. This produces a condition favora¬ 
ble to the growth of micro-organisms, such as tubercular 
bacilli, should the air which is breathed be microbic. Like¬ 
wise, such conditions as adenoids, enlarged tonsils, polypi, 
myxomas, deflections and hypertrophies, at the vestibule 
of the throat, favor the growth of pathologic organisms. 

With these matters before us, how important it is that 
the tubercular and they who are easily disposed to become 
so, should have this vestibule and this anteroom as health¬ 
ful, as it can be made. Nose breathing is the normal 
method of respiration; so, the unhealthy individual, if for 
no other reason, should employ nasal respiration, as he is 
more likely to escape disease of the respiratory organs. 
The inletting of microbic air to the lungs through the 
mouth, or the continued existence of conditions which rob 
the tissues of the power to destroy bacteria, this individual 
should avoid. 

Just as a purulent rhinitis is most often due to disease 
in the accessory spaces, so cervical adenitis is most fre¬ 
quently caused by a purulent inflammation of the throat. 
Every such case should have nose and throat searched for 
its cause. Here, as elsewhere, the glands to be first af¬ 
fected are those nearest the focus of infection, and this is 
a guide to the search. Here again, as elsewhere, there 
may be growths, inflammations, exudates and inspissated 
mucus, which, b}^ their position, are converting follicles and 
spaces into retention sacs. These, in consequence of ab¬ 
sorption of more or less of their contents, become hin¬ 
drances to those natural forces which protect the body. 
If these sacs are not discovered and drained they not onlv 
keep up a mild infection, but the pressure which they exert 
can induce inflammation and a condition similar to em¬ 
pyema. 

People with enlarged glands are not well. No matter 


Not the King’s Will 


177 


what diet, what climate, what sanitaria, and what treat¬ 
ment may be invoked to get well, health will not come until 
the cause of the adenitis is found and removed. How 
often is it that good health returns, without medicine, 
without change of climate, when a normal state of the 
lymphatics is established! 

Herein lies one of the great values of the physician to 
his community—teaching it how to avoid disease by di¬ 
recting attention to the throat. Healthy tonsils constitute 
great protection to the body. Diseased tonsils have lost 
their protective function and are converted into a menace. 
Enlarged, inflamed, their crypts containing an ill-smelling 
caseous exudate, and open to the admission of particles 
of food to putrefy therein, they become mediums for the 
growth of pathologic germs. Here, bacteria and their 
toxins, penetrating the lymphatic vessels, are carried 
along to the glands where, so long as the glands are able 
to do so, the deleterious materials are arrested, and the 
bodily health remains fairly intact. Partial drainage 
which accompanies tonsillar disease prevents them from 
losing their protective power at once. Opposed to drain¬ 
age, however, is the tendency of gradual addition to the 
number of glands involved; this usually continues until all 
lymphatic resistance is overcome. Here gargles and in¬ 
halations are worse than useless; it becomes necessary to 
remove all hopelessly diseased tissue to prevent further 
suffering, if not to save the life itself. 

A record of cases covering more than a quarter of a 
century is dotted here and there with cervical abscess from 
tonsillar disease; rheumatisms explainable by no other 
hypothesis than the general infection which came by the 
gateway of diseased tonsils; cases of fatal sepsis traceable 
to the same region, microscopic examinations of sections of 
the cervical glands disclosing streptococci; one case of 
slow-healing ulcer over each faucial tonsil with a tempera¬ 
ture ranging from 102.4 to 103, lasting nearly three 
weeks with attendant cervical lymphatic involvement in 
which microscopic examination disclosed the presence of 
typhoid bacilli, although there was no abdominal compli- 


178 


Not the King’s Will 


cation; a large number of patients with tubercular lym¬ 
phadenitis whose previous histories disclosed various forms 
of disease of the throat, and whose infections must have 
proceeded from the throat, the presence of tubercular 
bacilli being found in the glands; a number of cases of 
tubercular adenitis of the neck, clearly demonstrated by 
microscopic findings, and where surgical interference was 
not accepted, resulted in pulmonary tuberculosis; quite a 
number of recently acquired throat diseases which devel¬ 
oped cervical adenitis, and later became victims of pneu¬ 
monia. From the foregoing, it seems that remote and 
diverse results may follow cervical infection, their degree 
and nature being determined by the nature of the infect¬ 
ing agency—whether staphylococci, streptococci, pneu- 
mococcic or tubercular. One case of severe articular 
rheumatism following a tonsillitis with lymphatic involve¬ 
ment, and which resisted every anti-rheumatic medicine, 
responded nicely to anti-streptococcic serum. 

Every patient with enlarged cervical glands demanded 
careful examination, the nature of the agency producing 
his condition sought after until found, before a resort to 
adequate or rational medical, surgical or antitoxic treat¬ 
ment could be made. 

—Ohio State Medical Journal, August, 1911. 




Not the King’s Will 


179 


PAT HOGAN’S ’PENDISATIS 


M 


ORIARTY met Hogan in the park, each taking 
his customary Saturday half-holiday. “How’re 
ye, me b’y?” began Moriarty. “Oi’m convalis- 
cint, so the docther sez.” 

“An’ what’s thot, Oi’d be loiken to know?” 

“Divil do Oi, ner Oi don’t care, long’s Oi kape faalin’ 
this a-way.” 

“ ’Tain’t nothin’ loike toobookaalasis, is ut?” 

“Now, Tim Moriarty, don’t be foolin’. Whin Oi’m 
tellin’ Oi don’t know, leave ut alone. Oi axed the docther 
if ut was ketchin’; he grinned an’ said 4 no’.” 

“Yis; but, Pat Hogan, wasn’t it Bridget Hogan thot 
told Mary Moriarty thut her hoosbin’ was sune to laave 
her a widdy?” 

“Sure’s the worl’, Moriarty, the swaate darlin’. But if 
Oi kaape awn faalin’ foine ez a paacock, ut’ll be manys 
the year till she’ll be me widdy.” 

“Thot’s all roight, Pat; but hain’t ye bin sick, ner 
nawthin? Oi was kaapin’ me boots gr’ased, me b’y, fer- 
ninst the wake whin Oi hoord Biddy an’ the childer was to 
be arphins.” 

“Now, Tim Moriarty, you’re the b’atenest mon Oi’ve 
iver saan. Bad luck to yees, onyhow, for wantin’ to kaape 
aloive the divilish troubles that Oi drooned lost noight at 
Casey’s saloon. If ye’ll take a saat wid me by the binch, 
Oi’ll tell ye how near Biddy Hogan come of bain’ me wid¬ 
dy, an’ the divil take the mon who joomps intil Pat Ho¬ 
gan’s boots!” 

“Yis, but the rapoort that ye’d got riddy fer Davy 
Jones’s locker—how’s thot?” 

“Oi’m afther tellin’ ye, if ye’ll kape yer blatherin’ tongue 
still a minit. Manys the toimes Oi’ve tould it the day, 




180 


Not the King’s Will 


an’ Oi’m domned toired uv ut, Moriarty; domned toired 
uv ut.” 

“Will, thin, go awn; Oim as good as the rist. Basoides, 
Oi’m yer mother’s own coosin, thraa toimes ramoved. 
Don’t have no sacrits from yer fam’ly, Pat, me b’y.” 

“Thrue fer }^e, Tim Moriarty. Oi’ll kaap no sacrits 
from ye, but whin Oi remimber the toimes Oi’ve tould me 
story over an’ over, me stoomick gits sick, an’ Oi faal ut’d 
baan noicer to doie and lay undher sax faat uv gravel. 
Whin Oi goes home an’ saas Bridget an’ the childer, the 
cow, the pigs, an’ the goat, me own flish an’ bloood, Oi’m 
domned glad Oi’m livin’.” 

“Yis; but, what wus the matter wid ye?” 

“O Oi’m sick! Oof—Oof!” 

“But, Pat, remimber, no sacrits from yer fam’ly.” 

“Thrue, thrue, but the mim’ry uv ut makes me saasick. 
Oi faal loike Oi did whin Oi was thraa days out from 
Cork. Uf Oi had wan good pool at the joog, me droopin’ 
sperits an’ fadin’ mim’ry’d be good’s the king’s goold.” 

“Ye kin have a drap of me bottle. Oi kaap some wid me 
fer emargency.” 

“Per whot?” 

“Emargency. Oi don’t know what ut is, a-tall, a-tall. 
Maabe, ut’s loike co—con—what?” 

“Convaliscint ?” 

“Yis, Misther Hogan. We’re the b’ys’t has somethin’ 
an’ don’t know what ut is. Onyhow, Pat, take a good 
drink. That’s roight, me b’y. Nixt toime Casey fills me 
bottle Oi’ll ax him whot emargency manes. Ut’s a moighty 
sthrange faalin’, Oi’m a-thinkin’, and, whin ut comes awn, 
Oi droive ut away wid a little swally. How’d ye faal, Mis¬ 
ter Hogan?” 

“Foine es a fiddle—haaps foiner’n the faalin’s o’ con¬ 
valiscint.” 

“An’ kin ye tell yer throubles now, me b’y?” 

“Oi kin, Mister Moriarty, an’ Oi wull.” 

“Well, thin g’wan. Oi’m listenin’.” 

“Hould yer blatherin’, Tim Moriarty, Oi’ve got the 
fiure. You remimber Oi was baarin’ the hods uv bricks 






Not the King’s Wile 


181 


fer Murphy’s new ristoorong, a waak cornin’ Monday. 
Wull, all to wanst Oi got a divil uv a hard paan in me 
roight soide, an’ me hod fell to the groun’, an’ Oi com- 
minst to sqaal wid the misery uv ut.” 

“Didn’t ye call the docther?” 

“No, not thin; wan uv the min wus Chrustshun Sci’nce, 
an’ he tould me, me faath was wrong; Oi jist b’laved Oi 
had a paan. He tould me Oi cood save manys the docther 
bill by b’lavin’ there was no sufferin’, ixcipt in the moind. 
Oi thried moighty harrd to push me faath to the paan- 
quittin’ place, but wan o’ thim jabs’d come in the twunk- 
lin’ uv an oye, an’ me faath’d be gone. Oi tould him to go 
way wid his palaverin’, ’at Chrustshun Sci’nce moight be 
a foine posy fer yer button-hole, but was domned poor 
truck fer Pat Hogan thut was doyin’ twinty deaths.” 

“Whot nixt, Pat?” 

“Wan uv the b’ys wint fer Docther Monihan, but he 
was out, an’ so he fitched Docther Lilliman. Lilliman’s 
wan uv thim oysterpassers, an’ he rammed me round the 
ribs an’ poked me in the spoine uv me backbone. Then, he 
looked at me moighty solemn an’ tould me thut me spoine 
bone was crucked an’ out o’ j’int, an’ was stickin’ me 
bow’lls, an’ caused a long name—’pendisatis; thot’s ut, 
’pendisatis.” 

“Whot’s thot ag’in, Pat Hogan?” 

“Oi don’t know. Ut’s somethin’ moighty baad, loike 
bein’ in a town wid no whisky. Oi’m glad the docther 
didn’ faal me fer a longer name, the way he charges.” 

“Whot nixt, Mister Hogan?” 

“They took me home. Whin Bridget saw the min wid 
me, the darlin’ come roonin’ wid tears in her oyes. ‘What’s 
rang?” she cried. 

“ ‘Pendisatis,’ Oi whuspered. ‘Oi’m so glad ut ain’t 
worse’n ’pendisatis,’ she whuspered back, houldin’ onto me 
hand. 

“They put me to bid wid me clothes awn, fer the docther 
said ’pendisatis wus terruble dangherous. Thin, he 
poonched me this way, an’ thin that way; but thot divil- 



182 


Not the King’s Will 


ish sthab’d come ivery minnit er so, till, by the sowl, Oi 
wished Oi was did.” 

Moriarty looked disappointed. “Coodn’t the docther 
poonch yer spoine intil j’int, so the big name coodn’t hurt 
ye?” 

“Yis; so he did. At leasht, afther poonchin’ fer two 
hours, he tould me woife an’ the b’ys thut the bone was 
strate es a sthring, an’ the paan’d quit jabbin’ es soon es 
ther nerves foun’ ut out.” 

“Did they foind ut out?” 

“Not wan bit uv ut. We waited an’ waited, Bridget an’ 
me; me faather an’ muther, Bridget’s father an’ muther, 
our bruthers an’ sisters, an’ the praste, stood ut ez long 
as they cood, and thin they sint afther Monihan ag’in. 

“Monihan comes in, mad ez cood be, an’ he sez, sez he, 
‘Whot’s to pay?’ 

“The ould man sez: ‘The divil’s to pay; Pat has the 
’pendisatis!’ 

“‘Where’s yer paan?’ sez Monihan. ‘Roight here,’ sez 
Oi, pointin’ to me soide. Doc rammed his hand down to 
where Oi p’inted. The nixt minnit, he raised up. 

“ ‘Pendisatis Hell!’ sez Doc, houldin’ somethin’ in his 
hand. ‘Here’s yer ’pendisatis—an ould fish-hook in yer 
pants!’ ” 

April, 1907. —Journal of Clinical Medicine. 





Not the King’s Will 


183 


SAMMIE S SUBSTITUTE 


S AMUEL STANBERRY, senior, was obdurate. 
“No, my son, it’s impossible,” he declared, shaking 
his head emphatically. “We can’t afford attending 
ball games when so much work is staring us in the face. 
We must stay right here and hoe potatoes.” 

To the fifteen-year-old boy, who stood near in an ex¬ 
pectant attitude, these decisive words came with over¬ 
whelming force. It was the interposition of “we” that 
chiefly disturbed Samuel Stanberry, Jr. His father had 
never attended a game of ball in all his days, and now, at 
his time of life, it was not to be expected. What did “we” 
mean, anyhow? 

The ambiguity did not fail to change the expression on 
Sammy’s face, however. A slender thread of hope saved it 
from becoming utterly dejected at once. 

“If I can get someone to hoe for me, may I go to the 
game?” asked the boy, making a step toward his father. 

The elder Stanberry’s face relaxed, and the dignified 
pose of his huge person softened. Giving his hand a wave 
of generosity, he replied: “In that case, you may go; I 
feel safe in saying so, since everybody is busy. Still, sup¬ 
pose you succeed in securing someone in your place, what 
is there about a game of ball between two country teams 
that you should go, even then, ’specially when you don’t 
belong to either?” and walked away, convinced that he 
had annihilated his son’s desire to attend a contest be¬ 
tween the Fairview Club and the Thistle Ridge Nine by a 
very astute inquiry. Had he been less wise in his own con¬ 
ceit, he might have glanced backward and seen his son dig 
his toes into the mellow ground in expression of his dis¬ 
gust for the stupidity shown by his father. 

“And me the first substitute of the Fairviews!” ex¬ 
claimed Sammy, a look of bewilderment coming into his 


184 


Not the King’s Will 


eyes as he tried to imagine a boy so spiritless as to be 
resigned to the task of digging potatoes when his home 
team was playing a game of ball. Then, as if to banish the 
unwelcome phantom, he began applying the hoe vigor¬ 
ously, disdaining to glance after his parent. For a dozen 
hills the earth flew to gather about the green sprouts, and 
weeds disappeared from view, then a thought arrested 
the busy hands. Sammy’s jaw dropped and his body 
trembled at the awfulness of it. 

“S’pose Bob Norris gets rattled or Mark Hines gets a 
twisted leg, what then?” Either contingency would be 
direful, should one judge by the long-drawn sigh that an¬ 
swered the question. 

A still more startling thought presented itself: “S’pose 
I’d be the one to make a lucky strike?” 

The possibility of such an event relaxed the boy’s hand, 
and the hoe fell to the ground. Sammy unconsciously 
turned toward the direction taken by his father. It was 
too late to enter any arguments, however; Samuel Stan- 
berry, Sr., had jumped into the waiting wagon and was 
driving toward Holly Junction behind a team of spirited 
horses. 

As far as he could see him, the boy looked after his 
father and murmured: “It’s now six in the morning, and 
it will take him till five this evening to get back. The 
game’s at two this afternoon, and it’s a whole day’s job 
to hoe this patch of potatoes. It’s as clear as mud that 
I won’t get to see the game so far as father is concerned.” 
With a masterful effort he swallowed the big lump that 
came into his throat, and that part of his anatomy felt 
dry and parched; a recourse to a jug of cold water hidden 
in the shadow of a teeming vine gave but scant relief. 

Sammy found comfort in his imagination. “Maybe 
something will happen to the Thistle Ridge fellows and 
the game won’t be played, after all,” he whispered. Feeble 
as was the hope that inspired such a thought, yet it rolled 
back a cloud of despondency and allowed a ray of comfort 
to enter the lad’s mind. 

A moment of reflection dispelled his new-found pleasure. 


Not the King’s Will 


185 


“Pshaw!” he snorted, giving a clod a vigorous kick which 
sent it a rod away, where it collided with his pet dog 
sleeping in the morning sun. Zip howled with fright, and 
withdrew to a safer distance from which he cast reproach¬ 
ful glances at his master. But, all oblivious of the dog’s 
complaining howl, Sammy kicked other clods. 

“You just bet there won’t anything happen!” he cried. 
“Not any! Why should there? Just think—the Thistle 
Ridge Nine has licked every team in the county but Fair- 
view’s! That’ll rattle Bob Norris if nothing else does; 
beside, I’ve heard him say we’d have to go some to hold 
our own against the Ridge fellows; that shows that he’s 
panicky, sure. I wish I didn’t have to hoe potatoes, any¬ 
how !” 

The idea of any member of his favorite team becoming 
skittish in the presence of the invincible Thistle Ridgeites 
gave Sammie an unpleasant sense of impending disaster. 
He could see the banner of Fairview lowered to the dust, 
and he could hear the discordant groans of the victorious 
visitors. So vivid was the picture, he unconsciously ran 
toward the house where he saw his mother standing in the 
door. Surely she would modify his father’s conditions so 
that her son might assist averting such a calamity; if 
not, then a substitute must be found. 

Sammy stopped at the yard gate and looked back over 
the path he had come. He uttered a cry of alarm. 

“It’s no use, even Zip didn’t follow!” he muttered as he 
saw his canine pet strolling toward the road. “Zip knows 
I am to be disappointed, I suppose. But I am going to 
know the worst before I give up. There’s Lem and there’s 
Jim Sperry, there’s Hod Nagel, and there’s Joe Brent; 
they never play, but they want our side to win every game. 
That shows that they are the right kind. Now, if I can 
hire one of them, it’ll be all right, for they are good work¬ 
ers. Let me see, how’d I pay? There’s my old watch— 
Joe’s been coaxing for it and Hod wants the chain. It 
would be dirt cheap to let them go, if I got to the game.” 

Sammy took a few steps forward and stopped under 
an apple tree. Again he reviewed the troop of the backers- 



186 


Not the King’s Wile 


up on whom he could depend when the honor of Fairview 
was at stake and remuneration he could make them. 

“Yes, and there’s my steel traps!” he exclaimed, a sigh 
of relief escaping his breast. “With muskrats and minks 
growing scarcer every year, I could let them go to the 
Sperry boys who are always dingdonging me for them. 
Say! now’s their time, if they’ll hoe potatoes. Here’s for 
the telephone before I coax at mother.” 

With renewed hope, Sammy entered the house where he 
had seen his mother, but she had disappeared from that 
apartment. Giving a sigh of relief, he went into the hall 
and found it deserted also. Standing in a listening atti¬ 
tude, silence reigned all over the house much to the boy’s 
liking. Stepping to the telephone, he gave it a cautious 
ring. 

“Number one-seven-two, please. Hello! Is this Mrs. 
Sperry? I’m glad you came to the ’phone, Mrs. Sperry. 
Are Jim and Lem busy? Yes—why, this is Sammy Stan- 
berry—I’d like to speak to the boys. Hoeing potatoes, 
did you say? If they are not too far away, won’t you 
please tell them that I am ready to sell my traps, if they’ll 
take them before noon today? I want to trade them for 
work, and I’d like to know if the trade’s a go.” 

Sammy hung up the receiver with a dissatisfied air. He 
regarded the inanimate thing with a feeling of dislike, as 
if it was responsible for the ungratifying conversation he 
had just held. 

“What if the boys have to hoe potatoes all day?” he 
thought. “There’ll be no trade, if they do.” 

Clearly, he could not wait until he heard from the 
Sperrys; he must have definite information. He again 
approached the telephone, this time to give it a vigorous 
ring. The next moment Sammy’s heart gave a thump of 
pleasure as a familiar voice came from the other end of 
the wire. 

“That you, Hod? How are you? Yes, this is Sammy. 
Say, Hod, do you still want that chain of mine? You do? 
Well, you can have it, if you’ll hoe potatoes for father this 
afternoon. Going to the game, did you say? Now, Hod, 



Not the King’s Will 


187 


please come this once, won’t you, so I can help the fellows 
out, if they need me? I’ll let you have the watch with the 
chain, if you will. You can’t? O, you want to see the 
Thistle Ridge fellows play! That’s all right. No, I can’t 
go, because I’ve got to stay at home and hoe potatoes. Do 
you know anything about Joe Brent? Sick, is he? Too 
bad! Do you know of anyone that I could get to take my 
place? You don’t? What’s that? You saw a tramp head¬ 
ed our direction? Well, maybe I can get him; I’ll be on 
the lookout, anyhow.” 

The rustle of a dress caught Sammy’s attention. On 
turning, he found his mother standing near. “So you 
want to go to the ball game, do you?” she asked. 

“Yes, mother. Don’t you think I can, if I work real 
hard before I go and after I get back?” 

“I don’t see how, Sammy. The weather has been so 
backward, and work has fallen so far behind, we’re com¬ 
pelled to use every moment in catching up, if we wish to 
prosper. Besides, your father is not quite out of debt, 
and he lias to pay for the reaper which he has gone after 
to-day. Really, you oughtn’t to ask it, Sammy. Then, 
there’s always the danger of getting hurt. Don’t you re¬ 
member reading last week how one of the Thistle Ridge 
boys tripped Fred Wallace and broke his arm. You are 
much safer at home, Sammy.” 

Big as he was, and unaccustomed to do as he chose, 
Sammy could not hinder the tear that rolled down his 
cheek, nor prevent others from following, but he could 
hide his eyes in his coat-sleeve. This game had been 
singled out of many others as the one altogether desirable, 
and the prospect of being denied its attendance cut keener 
than a knife. 

A gentle hand was laid on his shoulder. “Never mind, 
Sammy,” said his mother. “Perhaps you’ll find someone 
to take your place in the field. There’s a tramp outside 
begging something to eat; perhaps he’ll work. You go 
and speak with him while I prepare him something for his 
breakfast.” 

On the outside Sammy encountered the tramp which 


138 


Not the King’s Will 


Hod Nagel had described. The aroma of the cooking of 
the morning meal still lingered about the premises, and 
this had excited the fellow’s appetite. 

To be fed without working, and to be permitted to 
breathe an atmosphere so redolent of fragrance, was not 
a square deal, to Sammy’s mind. 

“Say, mister, if mother gives you a good meal, it’s 
no more than fair that you work to pay for it. We’ve 
got potatoes to hoe.” 

The man looked at him with lowering eyes. “I’m jist 
out o’ the hosspittle, young feller.” 

“If you’ve been in one in six months it wasn’t because 
you were sick; you’re too healthy looking for that,” said 
Sammy. 

The tramp looked away and mumbled somthing which 
Sammy did not understand. 

“What did you say, mister? Talk plainer, can’t you?” 

The man grumbled: “I was hurt, not sick. I’ve been 
in a hosspittle all right.” 

“Maybe you were in the hospital at Holly Junction— 
it was robbed night before last, you know.” 

The vagabond gave a nervous start and muttered inco¬ 
herently. His manner excited the suspicion of the boy. 

“Say, mister, maybe you’re guilty.” 

The tramp turned quickly and uttered an oath. “Don’t 
call me a thief; I’ll do ye, if ye do!” doubling his fists. 

Sammy grasped a ball-bat that stood near. “None of 
that, mister. We make a whizzing center-fielder and home- 
run on all such balls as that.” 

The man remained silent. The attitude of the youth, 
and the threatening growls of Zip, who scented the fel¬ 
low far up the road and kept him pace to the kitchen 
door, might have made him retreat had not the fragrance 
of the kitchen kept assaulting his nose, causing his hunger 
to mount higher and higher. 

To the inspirited boy, the man’s silence was nettling. 
“I think I’ll just telephone to the Junction and ask if a 
man like you was ever there.” 


Not the King’s Will 


189 


The words struck home, and the man bent forward. “I’ll 
break yer head for ye, if ye do.” 

“O you will, will you?” roared Sammy, his eyes ablaze 
and bat aloft. 

Just then Mrs. Stanberry appeared with an old dish 
filled with delicious food. Immediately the man began to 
smile, but not before she had seen his terrible frown. “I’ve 
just been playin’ with the kid,” he said. 

“It’s well for you I hadn’t seen your evil face till now,” 
she returned. “But take it and move on. I believe you’re a 
bad, bad man.” 

The tramp grabbed the proffered plate and almost ran, 
in his haste to get away. 


II 

Mrs. Stanberry and Sammy discussed the encounter 
with the tramp, but further reference to the ball game was 
avoided by both. The clock on the mantle chimed an hour. 
“See, my son,” said she, pointing to the mechanism, “See, 
it’s eight o’clock, and but few potatoes hoed.” 

Sammy resolutely set his face toward the field in an ab¬ 
stracted way. In a moment, however, he came running 
back. 

“Look, mother!” he exclaimed, holding something to 
view. “Look, the tramp must have lost this half dollar. 
It’s black with sweat, but it pays for the breakfast. I’ll 
wash it good before I put it in my purse.” 

Sammy trudged back to his work. Reluctantly, but 
with some degree of youthful optimism, the hoe began to 
heap the earth again. Sometimes it was with retarded 
motion, then hastier strokes, that the mellow soil was 
rounded into heaps about the hills. 

“Dear me!” he sighed. “I hope I’ll hear favorable word 
from the Sperrys soon.” 

Zip whined at the mournful tone, and Sammy reached 
down and stroked his curly head. “Ah, old fellow, if every¬ 
body was as easy with me as you, I’d see the game this 
afternoon.” 

Sammy looked over the field and felt guilty that so lit- 


190 


Not the King’s Will 


tie had been accomplished. “Not quite three rows done!” 
he cried in alarm. “And forty to do!” 

Work was progressing too slowly, he admitted. He also 
admitted that it takes longer to heap up a hill of potatoes 
when one is solving difficult problems, particularly when 
one’s mind is far down the road where the Sperrys live. 

Convinced that fate was against him, Sammy deter¬ 
mined to make amends by doubling his efforts. Soon he 
was hoeing with all his might. How fast the weeds fell, 
and how rapidly the hillocks grew! He was trying to for¬ 
get his worry in his task, and how interesting it was be¬ 
coming; it seemed to possess a charm unknown to the 
past, a fascination that other days had not disclosed. 
With Zip’s glad bark and his mad rush after every bunch 
of weeds that Sammy sent flying, the boy seemed trans¬ 
formed to another sphere. The game of baseball was not 
to be compared to the game of work when one is really in¬ 
terested ! 

In the midst of his new-found pleasure, the sound of 
someone calling came from the roadside. Glancing in that 
direction, Sammv was amazed at what he saw. 

“Why, it’s the deputy sheriff, sure as I live! And he’s 
waving to me. Wonder why he’s out so early? He’s a good 
rooter, they say; never misses a game, makes himself jolly. 
He’s what the boys call a good mixer. Why, he continues 
to motion as if he wanted me.” 

Dropping his hoe, Sammy ran to the road and was soon 
perched upon the fence. 

“Aren’t you one of the players?” asked the officer, 
smiling. “Leastways, I remember seeing you play at 
Steam Corners and Laurel Hill.” 

Sammy’s face was beaming joyously. The sheriff’s 
recognition was so unexpected and pleasing that a wave 
of pride thrilled him through, and he hastened to reply. 
“That was because Mark Hines had a twisted leg; I’m 
the first substitute of the Fairview team, you see.” 

“O, yes; that’s the way of it, is it? Well, you’re a fine 
player for a boy, I must say,” and the officer cast an ad- 


Not the King’s Will 


191 


miring glance at Sammy. “Of course, you’ll not miss the 
fun this afternoon, will you?” 

Sammy bit his lip. “O no,” he said, shaking his head; 
then, nodding vigorously he continued: “Father says I 
must stay here and work.” 

“What a pity! Cannot the substitute find one for him¬ 
self ?” 

The question renewed Sammy’s dejection, and his chin 
quivered. “I’m looking for one, even if he don’t come.” 

The sheriff raised up in his buggy, looked the field 
over, and whistled. “It’ll take some hoeing to get that 
patch done, my boy.” 

“That’s true,” admitted Sammy, wishing the officer 
would not refer to unpleasant subjects. “I think I can 
get one of the Sperry boys to take my place here so I can 
go to the game.” 

“I hope you will; it’s high time you knew what you can 
do, for it’s nearly ten now, and you’ll have to start by one, 
you know. I want you fellows to do the Thistle Ridge team 
up brown, just to show the boys that they are not invinci¬ 
ble. So many victories have made them walk like pouter 
pigeons.” 

Sammy laughed at the officer’s conceit. “I’d like to help 
to bring them down a peg or two.” 

It was the sheriff’s turn to be amused. “May you have 
the chance! By the way, have you seen any tramps this 
morning?” 

“Yes,” and Sammy gave the officer an account of his 
encounter with the vagrant. 

“Thank you,” returned the sheriff, taking up his lines 
and disappearing down the road. 

Perspiring at every pore, Sammy reviewed the results 
of an hour’s interesting work. Zip capered about his heels 
as if calling for more sport. 

“Ah, old fellow,” he said, snapping his fingers to his 
pet, “if I had worked that fast all forenoon, two and a 
half out of the afternoon could have been easily spared. 
Then, with a full moon to-night, the work would have been 


192 


Not the King’s Will 


as far along by nine this evening as if I had stayed at 
home. I’m sure father would have agreed to that.” 

Sammy bent to his task with continued diligence. If he 
was to miss the game of the season, that hour should be 
his busiest. He would bury in the oblivion of fascinating 
occupation the pleasure that had beckoned from the dia¬ 
mond. He would wring contentment from being deaf to 
allurements that were pulling him from duty! 

Soon, buggies began to pass. Ball-goers jeered at the 
youth with the hoe, but the determined boy labored on. 

The hoe became a ball-bat, each hill a base, and the mel¬ 
low soil a ball. It was a single game where the batter 
struck against time, where fouls came from lagging, and 
where defeat came from worrying over environs. While 
he was in the midst of mentally batting a ball so high that 
a home-run was made before it returned to the ground, he 
heard a peculiar sound, and Zip had set up a terrible bark¬ 
ing. The two brought Sammy out of his dreams. On look¬ 
ing around, he was astonished to see another tramp, more 
ragged than the first, approaching. Limping painfully, 
the fellow drew near. Sammy saw that his face was 
brown with tan, his whiskers long and tangled, but his 
manner was genial. 

The man began making a series of gestures. 

“Can’t you talk?” asked Sam,my. 

The tramp pointed to his tongue and ears. 

“O, you are deaf and dumb, are you? Maybe you can 
write,” and Sammy made a motion of writing on the 
ground. 

The man smiled and nodded. Then, from some mysteri¬ 
ous pocket in the tattered coat he wore, he produced pa¬ 
per and pencil. Sammy watched the great effort it took 
to scrawl: “i was at vure hous an got somethin to eet. 
yure muther sed you would hiar me to ho pertaters. she 
sent yure diner and yure close with me.” 

Sammy looked in the direction indicated by the tramp 
and saw the man had spoken the truth. In fact, so ab¬ 
sorbed had he been in the game of work, he had not heard 
the dinner-bell. 


Not the King’s Will 


193 


Sammy felt a load roll off his heart. Giving the man a 
smiling nod, he made a gesture for the pencil. “He ain’t 
a very good speller, is he, Zip?” he asked of the dog, 
crouched in dumbness at his heels; then wrote: “If you 
can hoe potatoes, you may have my job, and I’ll give you 
half a dollar now and another to-night with your supper.” 

The man read it and reached for the hoe. Though Sam¬ 
my was tingling with delight, there remained a bit of sus¬ 
picion of the tramp’s honesty. He wanted a word of as¬ 
surance. 

The tramp saw the boy’s hesitancy, “ime all wright,” 
he scrawled, “i werked fer yoor father afour yoo were 
boarne.” 

“Then I can trust you?” wrote Sammy. 

“Shure!” was the reply. 

********* 

The game was in its eighth inning when a very red¬ 
faced boy arrived on the ground. It had been so hotly con¬ 
tested that neither side had scored. Every movement of 
the Thistle Ridgeites had been met by the Fairview Club, 
and the visitors were furious. Earnest words were bor¬ 
dering dangerously near the angry sort. 

Thus far nothing had occurred to mar the splendid 
machinery of play. 

Suddenly, a man, ragged and threadbare, was seen 
to emerge from an adjoining woodland and run across 
the grounds; his speed was something wonderful to be¬ 
hold. Every moment or so, the fellow would turn his head 
as if looking for a pursuer. 

Shortly, and from the same woodland, there appeared 
the deputy sheriff, who, on catching a view of the fleeing 
man, shouted, “Stop him! Stop him!” 

A chorus of howls broke from the onlookers; it served 
to increase the man’s speed and to add to his desire to get 
away. He ran blindly, with a nervous haste, evidently 
anxious to gain the swamp on the other side. In his excite¬ 
ment he saw no hindrances from the front, nothing but 
the officer close in the rear. In his mad desire to escape, 


194 


Not the King’s Will 


he stumbled over Mark Hines, who was trying to secure 
a ball straight from the bat. The man rose and continued 
his flight, but Hines lay quite still. The impact had ren¬ 
dered him senseless, and he was borne to a nearby tree 
where restoratives were applied. 

Sammy gazed after the ragged fellow with more than 
common interest. Suddenly, a look of recognition came 
into his eyes. 

“There goes the tramp that mother fed—he’s the rob¬ 
ber all right. I wonder if mine—” but the sheriff was say¬ 
ing, “That was the one I wanted, my boy!” and ran on 
after the tramp who was clambering over the fence into 
the swamp. At that moment came the voice of Fairview’s 
captain: 

“Samuel Stanberry, take Hines’s place!” 

In the last inning, Sammy came to the bat. Intently, 
he had studied the pitcher’s methods, resolved to sustain 
the eminence which he felt that Fairview had attained. 

He struck. Fairly and powerfully hit, the ball mounted 
the air and flew far beyond the left fielder, for the inter¬ 
est in the closeness of the game had drawn all eyes to the 
contest between pitcher and batter. 

Amid the greatest roar of mingled cheers and groans, 
Sammy’s swift legs seemed like the spokes of a fast re¬ 
volving wheel as he sped from base to base. 

“Go it, Sammy! Go, go, go!” 

The Ridgeites were yelling like demons while their cap¬ 
tain was deliriously calling: “Send a man after that ball, 
that fellow can’t see a barn!” 

Half a dozen Fairview boys were coaching the flying 
one. 

“Go, Sammy! Now, for home. Run, Sammy, they can’t 
touch you! That’s it! Now, S-L-I-D-E!” 

“The ball, the ball!” screamed the base-man just ahead, 
standing as if about to catch the ball. 

The pose gave the needed stimulant. Determined to 
wrest victory from apparent defeat, Sammy dropped to 
the earth, and, amid dust and cinders, his body shot to the 
precious goal. 




Not the King’s Will 


195 


“One run!” said the umpire, though his decision could 
not be heard in the awful din. 

That evening, with face and arms bandaged, Sammy 
was relating his experiences to a smiling mother. “It was 
worth all the bruises I got,” he declared. “Besides, the 
sheriff got his man.” Then, as if just recollecting, he 
asked: 

“Where’s my deaf and dumb tramp, mother?” 

“In the next room; I’ll bring him.” 

She returned with a bundle of old clothes and a box of 
dye. “And here’s your half dollar, my boy; I was the 
tramp.” 

“Why, mother, you didn’t—” 

“Yes, I did, though. Your talk with the real tramp sug¬ 
gested to me that I might help in sustaining the honor of 
the home team. And didn’t I?” 

“You certainly did, you dearest of mothers!” giving 
her a resounding kiss .—The Junior Epworth Herald. 

September 19 and 26, 1908. 




196 


Not the King’s Will 


THE TWO KITTIES 

Ellen 

“My kittie’s all black except where he is wdiite, 

His whisters are brown, and they tickle me so 
When we get to rubbing our noses ‘good night,’ 
While playing he’s baby with a bright ribbon-bow. 

Alice 

“My kittie’s all blue with the softest of fur, 

(Her feet and her tail and her earses are gray;) 
Her whisters don’t bother; you see, I tell her, 

We barber them short and we keep them that way. 

Ellen 

“My kittie will mew when he’s outside the door; 
Will mew and keep mewing until he’s let in; 

And then, awful nimble, he skips round the floor, 
And says a big ‘meow-ow’ as wicked as sin.” 

Alice 

“My kittie gets in without any big fuss; 

She ’members my dollie is never quite well; 

She scratches the door, just the softest, for us, 

Or climbs to the window and tinkles her bell.” 

Ellen 

“The purrs of my kittie are fine as a tune 
That wiggles your feet, or else they would dance; 
And when he laps milk, the dear little baboon, 

Is mannerly born, }mu can see at a glance.” 

Alice 

“My kittie’s no lapper; she sips like a queen; 

She crosses her pawses as if she’d say grace, 


Not the King’s Will 


197 


Then stops, between sippings, to wipe her mouth clean, 
And when she has finished, she washes her face.” 

Ellen 

“My kittie will snap up a mouse at the barn, 

To toss it and catch it, with many a yowl; 

Then tap it and roll it, as if made of yarn, 

Until he gets hungry, and then he’s an owl.” 

Alice 

“My kittie just sneezes at mice; so I guess, 

She thinks that they’re sour and nasty as kraut; 

A rat, big and fat, and enough for a mess— 

Say, one is a picnic that suits to a dot.” 

Mother 

“I think it’s all well to watch them and see 
How kitties will differ in what they will eat; 

But ’twixt a fat rat and a mouse, you’ll agree, 
There’s little of choice in the savor of meat. 

“ ’Tis not for their likings we make them our pets, 
Nor yet for the downy soft fur that they bear; 

But rather the cheer that their frolic begets 
Will antidote worries that come unaware.” 




198 


Not the King’s Will 


ATHLETICS 

We go to the movies in any smart town, 

And climb over mountains before we sit down. 

There’s mountains of feet and mountains of dress, 
That hinder the movement and give us distress, 

When all that we wish is a bit of old days 
When people loved acting in mannerly ways. 

When women were ladies and men were not gents, 
And dared one to offer to give such offense. 

There’s Rockies of boots and there’s Ozarks of shoes 
There’s Aetnas emitting dread-scented refuse; 

There’s Andes of bunions, Blue Ridges of shins, 
O’er which we must stumble and double our sins, 

When manners say: “Rise, stand out of the way!” 
As we want to enter or go from the play. 


•MS®** 


Not the King’s Will 


199 


IN MEMORIAM 

We doubt whether a larger audience ever tried to get 
into the M. E. Church building than that which assembled 
last Sunday evening at the memorial service in honor of 
the late Miss Maude E. Simons. The pews, aisles and en¬ 
trances were packed to their utmost. The people by their 
attendance and the deep feeling manifested showed the 
profound admiration felt for the deceased and their sym¬ 
pathy with the bereaved. The decorations of flowers were 
in keeping with the beauty of Miss Simons’ character and 
the glorious hope for her future. The exercises were un¬ 
der the auspices of the Womans’ Foreign Missionary So¬ 
ciety, and at the request of Mrs. A. C. Marple, president, 
Rev. L. M. Synder took charge. 

After the anthem by the choir, Rev. Snyder, pastor of 
the M. E. Church, spoke as follows: 

Miss Maude E. Simons was born in Fredericktown, 
Ohio, January 13, 1865 where she received her elementary 
education. She died in Yokohama Bay, July 30, 1898, 
aged 33 years, 6 months and 17 days. During her four 
year’s course at the Ohio Wesleyan University she be¬ 
came intimately associated with Miss Belle Allen, and to¬ 
gether they entered upon their missionary work. Miss 
Simons made but one change after her appointment to 
Nagasaki. She remained there three years, when she was 
removed to Yokohama, where her last five years were 
spent. A mother, three brothers and many other relatives 
remain to mourn their loss. 

“Her sun hath gone down while yet it is day.”—Jer. 
15:9. 

God is so much interested in the salvation of the race 
that He calls in various ways to every individual to be 
prepared to meet Him. He calls in the revolving seasons, 
and in the return of seed time and harvest. There is some- 



200 


Not the King’s Will 


thing beautiful in the sowing of the seed, and in watching 
the progress of its growth. First the blade, then the ear, 
then the full corn. It reaches maturity and is garnered for 
future use. Thus spring and summer come and go. Al¬ 
ready the frost of time is seen and felt. Behold the fading 
leaf, how beautiful, as it falls silently to the ground. Fit¬ 
ting emblem of fading humanity for we have spring, sum¬ 
mer and winter seasons, then we fade and fall. While true, 
there is a bright side to this fading, for the Christian wdio 
falls asleep in Jesus will awaken in the land of perpetual 
summer, where flowers bloom continually and the tree of 
life bears fruit the w T hole year round. God calls through 
the medium of His Word, the spirit and the church. 

He calls today by the death of one who was taken in 
the bloom of young womanhood, and humanly speaking, 
when least could be spared from the work to which the 
Lord undoubtedly had called her. She is like a flower 
plucked from the branch long before it was time to wither, 
or a silken cord too soon broken by a merciless hand. 
Comparatively her sun had scarcely risen, until it set, no 
more to shine in this w T orld, but I believe to shine for¬ 
ever in the kindom of God. Your daughter and sister is 
not dead, but she has entered into the more abundant life, 
she has just begun to live. While the workman has fallen, 
the work to which she consecrated her talents, for which 
she gave her life, will continue for all time and eternity. 
She has laid the foundation upon which character, if not 
future kingdoms, will be built. If she could have had her 
own wishes gratified her life on earth would have been 
lengthened out many years to have continued in the work 
she loved so well. Her plans were broken in upon. She was 
not permitted to look again upon the faces of mother, 
brothers and friends, but she was permitted to look upon 
the face of her Lord and Christ, and behold Him in His 
kingdom and beauty, and associate with those who have 
gone on before her. How suddenly she was translated from 
labor to reward. 

Be ye also ready. While buried in a foreign land, yet 
she is buried among God’s people. Her grave will be 


Not the King’s Will 


201 


visited for all time to come by American Missionaries and 
those whom she has taught the way of eternal life. In the 
springtime flowers will bloom over her form, planted by 
loving hands. 

Rev. J. W. Boyer, pastor of the Presbyterian church, 
then invoked the divine blessing upon the meeting, the fam¬ 
ily and friends. Hymn 117 by the choir. Mrs. Dan Stru- 
ble then read as a scripture lesson selections from the 
Book of Revelations. Miss Adelaide Snyder sang a beau¬ 
tiful solo, “Some Sweet Day.” Dr. W. W. Pennell spoke 
as follows: 

Among my earlier recollections of the people of Fred- 
ericktown and vicinity comes the memory of Miss Maude 
Simons. It is perfectly natural for us all to form ideas re¬ 
garding the people we meet. And the more frequently we 
meet them and converse with them upon topics in which 
they are interested and which interest us, the more fully 
do we comprehend their natures and tendencies. There are 
some natures that never reveal themselves to those with 
whom they frequently meet because nothing occurs to 
bring forth the depths of the innermost recesses of the 
heart wherein lies the real man or woman. Miss Simons 
never confided to me her missionary desires and tenden¬ 
cies, but in conversation upon subjects with which she 
was familiar and earnestly interested, the predominant 
spiritual side of her nature was accentuated. And an an¬ 
alysis of her method of expression and thought marked a 
nature which was exceedingly sincere, sympathetic and 
philanthropic. The desire to do those things that brought 
others happiness as well as herself; her generosity, her 
amiability, and her eminent desire to do the right; her 
inflexible fidelity, her unswerving courage, and her culti¬ 
vated intellect marked her no ordinary person. And when 
she came to me and said she intended fitting herself, in 
health and disease, to work in the field of missions and to 
do her life work in His name, I was not surprised because 
it seemed the natural result of her nature. I recognized 
something of the spirit of her lamented father who be¬ 
lieved in the brotherhood of man through the Fatherhood 


202 


Not the King’s Will 


of God. The memory of Miss Simons is linked with that 
of Miss Belle Allen. To me, these two were perfect paral¬ 
lels of womanly grace, modesty and refinement, governed 
by a high conception of Christian character and respon¬ 
sibility—two individuals whose hopes, ideas, aspirations, 
plans, and energies found comfort, happiness, and con¬ 
tentment in doing their adapted work, and that work the 
extention of the Church Militant. To them the command 
of the Heavenly Father was more than the voice of earth¬ 
ly parent or friend. Maude Simon’s life was but half a 
span—yet how complete! But ten years long, yet a thou¬ 
sandfold more accomplished for God and humanity than 
the best of us accomplish in three score years and ten. 
Her life is as a tale that is told, yet full of reflection and 
example for those that remain. Her life is as a song that 
is sung, but whose melody keeps ringing in the hearts of 
its hearers. Her life was a brief volume, closed but pre¬ 
cious, because it points Heavenward—the record of a 
pure life devoted to the service of the Master. And in 
the years to come many a reclaimed pagan and many a 
Christian pilgrim will visit the tomb in the far off land of 
Japan and bow there as to a shrine. And the wondering 
world will look on and say: “Here lies one who loved her 
fellow man.” She having lived, the world is the better, the 
brighter, the purer. 

Hymn No. 1053 

Mr. W. S. Cummings spoke first of his memories of 
Miss Simons as a child and his deep felt grief at the loss 
sustained by the family. He continued as follows : 

Having now become partaker of the divine nature, she 
grew in all the graces and in the knowledge of the truth, 
until I believe she as distinctly heard the Macedonian Cry 
as did St. Paul more than eighteen centuries ago, and I 
think she obeyed the divine command, to go into all the 
world and preach the gospel to every creature, as did the 
Missionaries for Christ in all ages. It was no small sacri¬ 
fice for her to deny herself the pleasure of a home in this 
beautiful country, and I believe no one not endued with 
power from on high could forsake home associations, so- 


by the choir. 


Not the King’s Will 


203 


cietj of friends, and native land as she did without hope 
of some earthly reward. But no tempting salary, no offer 
of high honors were offered her, simply a life of service 
which she obediently entered because her Divine Master 
desired her to do it. She was a woman of great Christain 
courage, that fitted her for all emergencies of life. Con¬ 
scious of her own strength and self possession she de¬ 
lighted to drive the most spirited horses, or she could 
stand alone on the deck of an ocean steamer and face the 
raging storm as it dashed the mighty waves of the sea 
mountain high. It is this kind of material God uses for his 
own high purposes. Never fearful or timid but modest and 
unassuming. She always did with her might what she 
found for her brain or hand to do, whether of painting, 
music or the work of the Master. Her devotion to her mis¬ 
sionary work was phenominal. Privileged to return four 
years ago, she thought only of the good she could do with 
the time and money required to make the voyage, and 
denied herself the pleasure, and only now consented to 
come because of the entreaties of family and friends, and 
only then when she had fully qualified a sister missionary 
to take her place. How fondly have we looked forward to 
the day of her promised return. How gladly we would 
have welcomed her to this platform tonight, but we re¬ 
member that “God moves in a mysterious way, his won¬ 
drous works to perform,” and we bow to His will, believ¬ 
ing He has ordered all things well. We have confidence 
that she has anchored her soul in the safe harbor of eter¬ 
nal rest where no cruel bark will ever again cross her 
pathway nor separate her from her associates. 

The unfriendly craft could prevent her from coming to 
us, but it is possible for us to go to her. And now that she 
has been “lifted up” may she not draw all her friends to 
her? Truly she was a noble woman, well worthy of all the 
honors we can pay to her memory, here in her native 
town, ever the dearest spot on earth to her. With pardon¬ 
able pride, with sympathetic hearts, with loving hands, we 
would have been glad to have placed what is mortal of her 
whose memory we would honor, in our cemetery by the 
side of her dear father, brother and little sister where we 


204 


Not the King’s Will 


might visit and mingle our tears with these sorrowing 
friends. But in this too, God has willed otherwise. But we 
are told that where she lies is a “beautiful spot, command¬ 
ing views of the sea and mountains, just such a place as 
inspired her so often.” In my imagination, at the quiet 
evening hour just as the sun is going down behind those 
Japanese hills, I see a procession wending their way to 
that place now sacred to so many of us, to water with 
their tears the beautiful flowers planted there by those 
whom she loved and who loved her so tenderly. We can 
well be content to trust her mortal remains in the care of 
such friends and await the resurrection morn. This so¬ 
ciety will ever cherish her memory in sincere hearts. 

Mrs. May Dague then sang a solo: “There is a land 
mine eye hath seen.” Mrs. Fannie Ball, on behalf of the 
Woman’s Missionary Society, read several letters from 
Yokohama friends of Miss Simons to her mother, Mrs. 
Alice Simons, expressing the deepest sorrow and sym¬ 
pathy. — 1 Free Press , Fredericktown, Ohio. 

August, 1898. 










































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